I was born and raised in Bani Suheila, a town of 40,000 inhabitants in the Khan Younis governorate in Gaza. It was a place where everyone knew each other. We lived in a large house surrounded by my extended family and fields planted with olive trees and fruit trees. Our close-knit community provided a feeling of security and comfort.
Fifteen months of bitter war have destroyed this sense of belonging. My family and I have already been forcibly displaced several times, and even though we are still in Gaza, in Palestine, I feel like a stranger.
In December 2023, we had to leave our home for the first time. We fled to what Israel claimed was a “safe zone” in the al-Mawasi neighborhood of Khan Younis. It was complete disarray when we arrived and we had difficulty finding a small spot on the sand to pitch a tent.
We were surrounded by people we didn’t know. Palestinians from across Gaza have fled to the region. As I walked around the camp, I saw only unfamiliar faces. People looked at me with ambiguous gazes, as if silently asking: “Who are you, stranger?”
Al-Mawasi used to be a beach where my friends and I liked to go and relax. It was painful to see it transformed into a displaced camp filled with people mourning the loss of their homes and loved ones.
In February we had to flee to Rafah. After the Israeli occupation issued forced displacement orders in various parts of the Gaza Strip, a million homeless people converged on the southern city. We were among them.
Its streets and public squares were clogged with displaced people setting up tents wherever they could find space. Yet the place seemed like a desert to me: arid and inhospitable.
My family and I lived in a tent in constant poverty, like the rest of the displaced. I wandered the city’s alleys daily, hoping to find food to buy – if I could afford it. Often, I came back empty-handed.
Sometimes I would run into someone I knew – a friend or relative – who would bring me moments of joy followed by deep sadness. Joy came from finding out they were still alive, but it quickly turned to sadness when they told me someone else we knew had been martyred.
My friend or relative would inevitably comment on my significant weight loss, pale features, and fragile body. They often admitted that they didn’t recognize me at first glance.
I returned to my tent with a tightness in my chest, overwhelmed by a feeling of alienation. Not only was I surrounded by strangers, but I also became a stranger to those who knew me.
The suffering of the displaced people was continuous and unbearable. Nothing topped it, except the news of further forced displacement, which usually came in the form of leaflets dropped on us by Israeli warplanes. We hurried to gather our things, knowing that those warplanes would soon return – not with more leaflets, but with more bombs.
In April, the Israelis dropped leaflets informing us that we were being forced to leave Rafah. We fled with a small bag containing the few possessions we had and the burden of everything we had endured: hunger, fear and the pain of losing loved ones.
We returned to Khan Younis – in the western part, which Israel claimed to be “safe” – to find the place destroyed and devoid of any signs of life. All roads, shops, educational institutions and residential buildings were reduced to ruins.
We had to pitch our tent next to the destroyed houses. I wandered the streets, looking in disbelief at the scale of destruction left by the Israeli occupation. I no longer recognized the city that I often visited with my friends.
In August, for the first time since the start of the war, I managed to reach our neighborhood of Bani Suheila, east of the town of Khan Younis. I thought the feelings of alienation would end there, but that’s not the case.
I walked among people I knew and who knew me, but the strange looks persisted – not because they didn’t recognize me but because I looked much worse than they did. had never seen. They looked at me in astonishment, as if I had become someone else. Their gazes only deepened my feelings of alienation, loneliness, and loss.
I struggled to understand the destruction and disappearance of all the places and monuments that once defined my hometown. The house I grew up in was burned to the ground following a massive fire caused by bombing. Inside it was filled with rubble, our belongings turning into something that looked like lumps of coal.
Today, after 15 months of war, we are still displaced. Everywhere I go people ask me, “Oh, displaced person, where are you from?” Everyone looks at me with a strange look. I have lost everything and I am left with the one thing I wanted to get rid of throughout this war: the feeling of alienation. I became a stranger in my own country.
The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Tel Aviv Tribune.
