As a child, I dreamed of traveling the world, exploring new cultures and learning new things. I longed for a journey of discovery. Living in Gaza, I couldn’t participate, but it felt like I was sitting in the audience, watching from afar as the world’s achievements – the wonders of development, progress and technology – unfolded.
It was both a sanctuary and a cage. The regular rhythm was soothing but repetitive, the streets too familiar, and the vision too narrow for the aspirations I had inside me. I cherished the warmth and closeness, but the lure of life beyond borders was irresistible. The moment the opportunity presented itself, I was ready to leave.
I did travel this year, but it wasn’t what I dreamed of. Instead of a carefree journey of overseas exploration, I found myself on a journey through genocidal war and the struggle for survival within the narrow strip of land I call home in Palestine. In the process, I learned a lot about myself and my inner world.
The “journey” began in January. While most people welcomed the new year under a sky full of fireworks, song, and joy, my sky was under an evacuation advisory. A crumpled piece of paper with a message written in Arabic fell on us. “Nuseirat camp is too dangerous. Please move south for safety.”
I never thought leaving the house would be so difficult. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who doesn’t have a strong connection to my hometown or country. But I was wrong. Leaving felt like giving up a part of my soul.
My family and I headed to Rafah and stayed with my aunt. My aunt welcomed us warmly. Even though I felt some peace there, all I could think about was home. So here I am, February, the month of love, feeling incredibly homesick and realizing how much I love the home I grew up in.
In mid-February, the Israeli army withdrew from Nuseyrat and we hurried home. Finding my house still intact was one of the best moments of the war and of my entire life. The front door was broken in, our belongings were stolen, and inside was debris from the bombing of our neighbor’s house. But it was still standing.
Although destruction surrounded us, the rubble of our neighborhood felt warmer than any other safe place in the world. As the grandson of refugees, for the first time in my life I felt like I belonged somewhere. My soul, my identity, they all belonged here.
The joy of returning home was soon overshadowed by the realities of war. March is here and the holy month has arrived. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and unity. But this year has been full of loss, separation, and deprivation. There were no communal meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray, only rubble.
Instead of calm, we experienced relentless shelling and fear. Bombs were dropped without warning, and each explosion shattered any sense of safety we had. We were being punished for unknown crimes and treated as “human animals” as the Minister of Defense said.
In April, Eid al-Fitr came and went, robbing us of the joy that characterized this important Islamic holiday. There was no children’s laughter to wake us up in the morning, no lively preparations or decorations to welcome guests. Only the dead visited Palestinian homes in Gaza.
Then May came around and I had the opportunity 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 fraud, bribery, and rejection.
The idea of escaping the unrelenting horror around me was intoxicating. I wanted freedom, but it came at a price. I left my entire family and home behind with no prospect of returning.
To an outsider, this may seem like a simple choice. Follow your dreams, take chances, and quit! But for me, it was never easy.
Late one afternoon, as I sat with my sister Aya on a rooftop under a sky filled with spy planes, I realized the true weight of my decision. Only 15 years old, Aya was full of energy and hope, her hazel eyes sparkling with ambition. “I want to learn programming just like you,” she said excitedly. “I want to start my own business like you. I also want to improve my English like you.”
How could he leave her and her family in the middle of a war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya was left behind, struggling to eat, sleep, and dream? How could I live anywhere else, knowing that my sister was facing her nightmares alone? How could I abandon the very land that made me who I am?
In that moment, I realized that if I abandoned Gaza now and ignored it as a place of rubble and ruin, my soul would never be free. I realized that my identity was tied to this place, this struggle.
When I first told my family that I wanted to stay, they didn’t accept me. Concerned for my safety, they insisted I leave to survive. After a long back and forth, they finally respected my decision, but their fears never completely disappeared.
A few days later, Israeli forces occupied the Rafah crossing, cutting off access to the outside world. I didn’t regret my decision.
As Israeli forces continue to attack civilian areas across Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it was our turn to welcome our relatives. We welcomed them not as refugees, but as family. It is our duty to share and be there for each other in times of need. By fall, we had 30 people in our house.
Over the summer, we began to feel the growing impact of restrictions on all paid products, not just humanitarian aid. Basic food items have disappeared from the market. Aid organizations struggled to distribute food.
It became increasingly clear that those who survived the bombing would die a different, slower death from starvation. Food rationing became extremely difficult and competition for survival became fierce. Life felt more like a jungle where only the strong could survive.
In the fall, hunger was exacerbated by rain and wind. We saw people overwhelmed with misery and forced to live in tents.
In November, tragedy struck my family. My 8-year-old cousin Ahmad, who was like a younger brother to me, suffered a brain hemorrhage after falling from the third floor of a building. The thought of losing him was overwhelming.
We rushed him to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which was overcrowded with airstrike injuries and lacked the equipment needed to perform a brain scan. We tried to go to two nearby hospitals, but both said there was nothing they could do for him. By evening we managed to find a medical center that might be able to help him, but it was far away. It was a huge risk to send him by ambulance after dark. As many people have experienced in the past, cars can become targets for drones. It was a choice between two deaths.
We decided to hold out hope and sent Ahmad by ambulance. Miracles happen even in the darkest days. Ahmad arrived safely and underwent the necessary surgery, saving his life. He has started to recover but still needs physical therapy, which is not available in Gaza.
While we were worrying and caring for Ahmad, December arrived. Soon we heard unexpected news from Syria. Syria’s brutal regime has collapsed. I felt very happy.
In Gaza, we have long stood in solidarity with the Syrian people. We know the suffering of war and oppression, and we rejoiced to see the Syrian people finally free. Their release gave us hope, as it was the first time we witnessed the triumph of justice. It was a reminder that someday we too may experience that sense of relief in a liberated homeland where our lives are no longer in danger.
As the year draws to a close, we have been closely following the news regarding ceasefire negotiations, but for us Palestinians, 2024 is coming to an end without a moment of relief.
This year-long journey has left its mark on me. Black hair with white streaks, a frail body, ill-fitting clothes, dark shadows under his eyes, and a dull, tired gaze. But it’s not just the appearance that has changed. This year has consumed my soul like wildfire.
However, ash also contains seeds. I feel like something new has appeared within me. It is a determination to remain, to endure, to change, to withstand every attempt to erase my memory, my identity, my people.
The death and destruction was overwhelming, but it still couldn’t defeat me. If anything, I feel a deep desire to live in Gaza, Palestine, for many more years. We feel an obligation to the martyrs to resist, to stay, to rebuild, and to live. The responsibility of rebuilding our homeland rests on our shoulders.
I am no longer the person I once was, full of dreams of leaving Gaza and living a comfortable life far away. I will remain in my homeland and maintain the belief that peace will one day return to Gaza, no matter how fragile. I continue to dream of a Palestine where the people are finally liberated.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
