My grandfather, Hamdi, was only eight years old when his family fled Bir al-Sabaa, a town in southern Palestine once known for its fertile land and agricultural life. His father, Abdelraouf, was a farmer who owned nearly 1,000 dunums of land and grew wheat, selling his harvest to merchants in Gaza. The family led a happy and comfortable life.
In October 1948, several months after Euro-Zionist forces proclaimed the creation of Israel, Israeli troops attacked Bir al-Sabaa, forcing thousands of Palestinians, including my grandfather’s family, to flee under threat. to be massacred.
“We fled Bir al-Sabaa when the militias arrived,” my grandfather often told me. “My father thought it would only be temporary. We left our home, our land and our animals behind, thinking of returning there. But that never happened.
Hamdi’s family fled on foot and in a horse-drawn cart. What they thought would be a few weeks of displacement turned into permanent exile. Like 700,000 other Palestinians, they survived what we now call the Nakba.
Hamdi’s family found refuge in Gaza, where they stayed in temporary shelters and with their extended family. Relatives helped them buy a small plot of land in Gaza’s Tuffah neighborhood, just 70 kilometers from their home in Bir al-Sabaa, which the Israelis renamed Beersheba. Hamdi’s family struggled to rebuild their lives.
Seventy-five years after my grandfather’s experience of painful displacement, grief, and struggle for survival, my family and I were also victims of the Nakba.
On October 13, 2023, at 4 a.m., my mother’s phone rang. We were all sleeping in one room of our house in the Remal neighborhood of Gaza City, trying to find comfort in the incessant noise of drones and warplanes above us. The phone woke us all up.
It was a pre-recorded message from the Israeli army warning us that our house was in a dangerous area and that we were being ordered to head south. Fear gripped us as we ran outside, only to see Israeli leaflets scattered everywhere with the same warning. We had no choice but to take some clothes and bedding and flee.
It wasn’t the first time we were forced to leave our house. Since the age of 12, I have experienced the horror of Israeli attacks on Gaza, which repeatedly forced us to flee and live in fear and uncertainty.
Since the age of 12, I have learned to recognize the distinct sounds of bombs, F-16 jets, Apache helicopters and drones. I have known intimately the terror they bring.
Previous moves had been temporary, and we had hoped this one would be temporary, too – just as my grandfather believed his family would eventually return.
But no return is in sight for the moment. Our house was badly damaged by an Israeli tank. The upper floor was set on fire and an entire wall of the lower floor was missing. All our belongings were destroyed.
The purse containing some clothes that I took on October 13 is all I have left.
We headed to az-Zawayda, in the central Gaza Strip, to stay with relatives. Along the way, we saw thousands of other Palestinians dragging bags of clothes and seeking shelter.
From our temporary shelter, I saw the pain of exile in the crowded corners of every room. We shared an apartment with 47 other people, bound by the frightening fear of nowhere being safe. We spent two months in this crowded apartment near Salah al-Din Street. Eventually, the constant explosions forced us to move to another house in the neighborhood.
On January 5, sniper fire and gunfire intensified. Then came the thunder of artillery and bombs. We gathered what little we had and fled to Deir el-Balah.
We were forced to live in an eight-person tent for three months before moving into a small, poorly insulated room on land owned by a friend. This is where we spend the winter. The rain seeps through the nylon windows and the cold is unbearable, leaving us sleepless most nights.
We struggled to secure the most basic needs: food and water. For the last two days we have had to survive on contaminated water and a single loaf of bread. Famine has exhausted our strength and our hopes.
I now understand the 1948 Nakba in a way I never understood before. It is the story of my grandparents that is repeated within our generation, but within the confines of Gaza. And to be honest, it’s even worse than the Nakba of 1948. The weapons used today are far more advanced, causing unprecedented destruction and mass death and injury – something my grandparents did not could never have imagined in 1948.
The pain is not just physical. It’s also psychological. Witnessing the unthinkable – the constant fear, the loss of loved ones, the struggle for survival – took a heavy toll. During sleepless nights, the deafening roar of rockets and memories of dismembered bodies and ruined houses haunt us. I look at my family members and see how their faces have changed; their hollow eyes and silent tears speak volumes. When I walk down the street, I see communities known for their generosity and solidarity broken by loss and destruction.
It is clear that Israel’s goal is to force the Palestinians to leave historic Palestine by any means. The fear of being expelled from Gaza is overwhelming. With homes reduced to rubble and entire neighborhoods wiped out, it seems our exile is imminent. I never imagined leaving my home, but after losing everything, Gaza no longer seems like a place to live – only a graveyard of despair and loss.
There is no Palestinian who has not been affected by displacement, by the fear of losing their homeland forever. The Nakba is truly the never-ending story of Palestine.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
