When I was a child, I dreamed of traveling the world, exploring new cultures and learning new things. I wanted a journey of discovery. Living in Gaza was like sitting in the stands, watching from afar the world’s achievements – its development, its progress and its technological marvels – without being able to participate in them.
It was both a sanctuary and a cage – its steady rhythm comforting but repetitive, its streets too familiar, its horizons too narrow for the aspirations I carried within me. I cherished its warmth and closeness, but the lure of life beyond its borders was irresistible. I was ready to leave as soon as an opportunity presented itself to me.
This year I took a trip, but not the one I dreamed of. Instead of a journey of carefree exploration abroad, I found myself in a genocidal war and a struggle for survival in the narrow strip of Palestinian land I call home. Along the way, I learned a lot – about myself and my inner world.
The “journey” began in January. While most people were welcoming the new year under skies filled with fireworks, singing, and joy, my sky was issuing evacuation orders. Crumpled papers fell on us bearing a message written in Arabic: “Nuseirat camp is too dangerous. Move south for safety.
I never thought leaving home would be so difficult. I had always thought of myself as someone who didn’t have a strong connection to home or homeland. But I was wrong. Leaving felt like giving up a part of my soul.
My family and I went to Rafah to stay with my aunt who gave us a warm welcome. Although I felt some comfort there, in my mind, all I could think about was my home. So I greeted February, the “month of love,” feeling terribly homesick and realizing how much I loved the home I grew up in.
In mid-February, the Israeli army withdrew from Nuseirat and we hurried home. It was one of the best moments of the war – and of my entire life – to find my house still intact. His front door was broken, our belongings had been stolen, and the rubble from the bombing of our neighbor’s house had crashed inside. But he was still standing.
Even though destruction surrounded us, the rubble in our neighborhood still felt hotter than any safe place else in the world. For the first time in my life, I – the grandson of refugees – felt like I belonged somewhere. My soul, my identity – they all had a place here.
The joy of being home was soon eclipsed by the reality of war. March arrived and brought the holy month. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and togetherness. But this year has been filled with loss, separation and deprivation. There were no shared meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray in – only their rubble.
Instead of tranquility, we experienced incessant bombing and terror. The bombs fell without warning, each explosion shattering any sense of security we may have had. We were punished, treated like “human animals” – as their Minister of Defense had said – for an unknown crime.
In April, Eid al-Fitr came and went, lacking the joy that defines this cherished Muslim holiday. There were no children’s laughter to wake us up in the morning, no tedious preparations or decorations to welcome guests. Death was the only visitor in Palestinian homes in Gaza.
Then May arrived and with it an opportunity that I had been waiting for my whole life. My family managed to raise enough money to pay an Egyptian company to help me leave Gaza. The process was fraught with uncertainty. There were rumors of scams, bribes and rejections.
The idea of escaping the relentless horror around me was intoxicating. I wanted freedom, but it came at a price. I had to leave my entire family and my home behind with the uncertain prospect of ever returning.
To outsiders, it may seem like a simple choice: follow your dreams, take a chance and go! But for me it wasn’t easy.
Late that afternoon, I was sitting with my sister Aya on our roof under a sky filled with spy planes when I realized the true weight of my decision. Aya, just 15 years old, was full of energy and hope, her light brown eyes shining with ambition. “I want to learn programming like you,” she said enthusiastically. “I want to start my own business like you. I want to improve my English like you.
How could I leave her and my family in the middle of war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya stood there, struggling to eat, to sleep, to dream? How could I live a life anywhere else, knowing that my sister had nightmares alone? How could I abandon the very land that made me who I am?
At that moment, I realized that my soul would never be free if I abandoned Gaza now, if I saw it as a place of rubble and ruin. I realized that my identity was tied to this place, to this struggle.
When I first told my family that I wanted to stay, they refused to accept it. They insisted that I leave to survive, fearing for my safety. After a lot of back and forth, they eventually respected my decision, but their fear never completely went away.
A few days later, the Israeli army occupied the Rafah crossing, cutting off access to the outside world. I have not regretted my decision.
As the Israeli army continued to attack civilian areas throughout Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it was our turn to shelter loved ones. We welcomed them not as displaced people but as our family. It is our duty to share and support each other in times of need. In the fall, there were 30 people in our house.
Over the summer, we began to feel the increasing impact of restrictions not only on humanitarian aid but on all revenue-producing goods. Basic food products have disappeared from the markets. Humanitarian organizations have struggled to distribute food.
It became increasingly clear that those who survived the bombings would experience a different, slower death by starvation. Food rationing became so severe that survival became a cruel competition. Life was more like a jungle where only the strongest could survive.
In the fall, hunger was made worse by rain and wind. We saw people forced to live in tents, overwhelmed by poverty.
In November, a family tragedy occurs. My eight-year-old cousin Ahmad, who was like a little brother to me, fell from the third floor of our building and suffered a brain hemorrhage. The thought of losing him was overwhelming.
We rushed him to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, overcrowded with airstrike casualties and lacking the necessary equipment to perform brain scans. We tried going to two nearby hospitals, but were told that they too could not do anything for him. As night fell, we managed to find a medical center that could help him, but it was far away. Sending him in an ambulance after dark posed a huge risk: the vehicle could be targeted by a drone like so many others had been. It was a choice between two deaths.
We decided to remain hopeful and sent Ahmad into the ambulance. Even in the darkest days, miracles happen. Ahmad arrived safely, underwent the necessary surgery and survived. He has begun to recover, although he still requires physical therapy which he cannot receive in Gaza.
While we were worrying and caring for Ahmad, December arrived. Soon we heard unexpected news from Syria: the brutal regime had collapsed. I felt extremely happy.
In Gaza, we have stood in solidarity with the Syrian people for a long time. We know the suffering of war and oppression, and we were sincerely happy to see the Syrian people finally free. Their release was the first time we saw justice prevail, which gave us a sense of hope. It reminded us that one day we too could experience this kind of relief, in a liberated homeland where we no longer fear for our lives.
As the year drew to a close, we closely followed the news of the ceasefire talks, but the year 2024 now ends without a moment of relief for us Palestinians.
This year-long journey has left its mark on me: white streaks in my black hair, a frail body, ill-fitting clothes, dark circles under my eyes and a tired look that has lost its shine. But it’s not just my physical appearance that has changed. This year burned my soul like wildfire.
But even ashes bear seeds. I feel that something new has emerged within me – a determination to stay back, to persevere, to change, to resist all attempts to erase my memories, my identity, my people.
The death and destruction were overwhelming, but they could not bring me down. On the contrary, I feel a deep desire to live – for many more years – in Gaza, in Palestine. I think we have a duty to the martyrs to resist, to stay on this earth, to rebuild and to live. The responsibility to restore our country rests on our shoulders.
I am no longer the man I once was, full of dreams of leaving Gaza and living an easy life far away. I will stay in my country and continue to believe that peace, however fragile, can one day return to Gaza. I will continue to dream of a Palestine where its people can finally be free.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
