When I was a child, I dreamed of traveling the world, exploring new cultures and learning new things. I longed for a voyage of discovery. Living in Gaza was like sitting in the stands, watching the world’s achievements – its development, progress and technological marvels – unfold from afar, without being able to participate.
It was both a refuge and a cage—its regular rhythm comforting but repetitive, its streets too familiar, its horizons too narrow for the aspirations I carried within. I appreciated its warmth and closeness, but the lure of life beyond its borders was overwhelming. I was ready to leave as soon as I got the chance.
This year I did go on a trip, but not the one I dreamed of. Instead of a carefree trip abroad, I found myself on a journey through a genocidal war and a struggle for survival within the narrow strip of Palestinian land I call home. I learned a lot along the way – about myself and my inner world.
The “journey” began in January. While most people celebrated the New Year under a sky filled with fireworks, song and joy, my sky issued orders to evacuate. Crumpled papers with a message written in Arabic fell on us: “Camp Nuseirat is too dangerous. Head south for your own safety.”
I never thought leaving home would be so difficult. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who doesn’t have a strong connection to home or country. But I was wrong. Leaving was like leaving a part of my soul.
My family and I went to Rafah to my aunt, who welcomed us warmly. Although I felt some comfort there, in my mind I could only think of my home. That’s how I welcomed February, the “month of love”, feeling an incredible longing for home and realizing how much I loved the house where I grew up.
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 home still intact. His front door was broken in, our belongings were stolen, and rubble from the bombing of our neighbor’s house collapsed inside. But it still stood.
Even though destruction surrounded us, the ruins of our neighborhood were still warmer than any safe place anywhere else in the world. For the first time in my life, I – the grandson of refugees – felt that I belonged somewhere. My soul, my identity – they all belonged here.
The joy of returning home was soon overshadowed by the reality of war. March came and brought the holy month. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and fellowship. But this year was filled with loss, separation and poverty. There were no communal meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray in – only their ruins.
Instead of peace, we experienced relentless 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 defense minister said – for an unknown crime.
In April, Eid al-Fitr came and went, devoid of the joy that defines this revered Muslim holiday. There was no children’s laughter to wake us up in the morning, no busy preparations or decorations for welcoming guests. Death was the only visitor to Palestinian homes in Gaza.
Then May came, and with it the opportunity I had been waiting for all my life. My family managed to raise enough money to pay an Egyptian company to help me leave Gaza. The process was riddled with uncertainty. There were rumors of frauds, bribes and rejections.
The thought of escaping the relentless horror around me was intoxicating. I wanted freedom, but it came at a cost. I was to leave my entire family and my home with an uncertain prospect of ever returning.
To outsiders, this might seem like an easy choice: follow your dreams, take a chance, and go! But for me it was anything but easy.
One late afternoon I was sitting with my sister Aya on our roof under a sky full of spy planes when I realized the true weight of my decision. Aya, only 15 years old, was full of energy and hope, her light brown eyes shining with ambition. “I want to learn to program like you,” she said excitedly. “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 a war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya stayed, struggling to eat, sleep, dream? How could I live my life anywhere else, knowing that my sister was facing nightmares on her own? How could I leave the very country that made me who I am?
In that moment I realized that my soul would never be free if I left Gaza now, if I rejected it as a place of rubble and ruins. I realized that my identity is tied to this place, this struggle.
When I first told my family that I wanted to stay, they refused to accept it. They insisted that I leave in order to survive, fearing for my safety. After a long wait, they eventually respected my decision, but their fear never completely disappeared.
A few days later, the Israeli army seized 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 across Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it was our turn to host relatives. We welcomed them not as exiles but as our family. It is our duty to share and be with others in times of need. By autumn, there were 30 of us in the house.
During the summer, we began to feel the increasing impact of restrictions not only on humanitarian aid but also on all paid goods. Basic foodstuffs have disappeared from the markets. Humanitarian organizations struggled with food distribution.
It was increasingly clear that those who survived the bombing would face a different, slower death by starvation. Food rationing became so severe that survival turned into a cruel competition. Life was more like a jungle where only the strongest can survive.
In autumn, the rain and wind worsened the hunger. We saw people forced to live in tents overcome by misery.
In November, a family tragedy occurred. My eight-year-old cousin Ahmad, who was like a younger 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 the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Hospital, which was overcrowded with people wounded in airstrikes and did not have the necessary equipment for brain scans. We tried to go to two nearby hospitals, but were told that they couldn’t do anything for him either. By night we managed to find a medical center that could help him, but it was far away. Sending him in an ambulance after dark was a big risk – the vehicle could be targeted by a drone as many have been. It was a choice between two deaths.
We decided to hold on to hope and sent Ahmad to the ambulance. Even on the darkest days, miracles happen. Ahmad arrived safely, underwent the necessary surgery and survived. He has started to recover, although he still needs physical therapy, which he cannot receive in Gaza.
While we worried and worried about Ahmad, December came. Soon we heard unexpected news from Syria: the brutal regime there had fallen. I felt extremely happy.
In Gaza, we have been in solidarity with the Syrian people for a long time. We are aware of the suffering of war and oppression and were sincerely happy to see the Syrian people finally free. Their release was the first time we witnessed the victory of justice, which gave us a sense of hope. It reminded us that one day we too could experience such 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 2024 is now ending 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 shadows under my eyes and a tired look that has lost its luster. But it wasn’t just my physical appearance that changed. This year has burned my soul like a fire.
But even ashes bear seeds. I feel that something new has appeared in me – the determination to stay, to persevere, to change, to withstand all attempts to erase my memories, my identity, my people.
The death and destruction were overwhelming, but they failed to bring me down. If nothing else, I feel a deep desire to live – for many more years – in Gaza, in Palestine. I feel that we have a duty to the martyrs to resist, to stay on this earth, to restore it and to live. The responsibility of rebuilding our country rests on our shoulders.
I am no longer the man I was, full of dreams to leave Gaza and live an easy life far away. I will remain in my homeland and continue to hold on to the faith 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 views expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.
