I was born and raised in Bani Suheila, a town of 40,000 people in Gaza’s Khan Yunis governorate. It was a place where everyone knew each other. We lived with a large family in a large house surrounded by fields of olive and fruit trees. Our close-knit community provided safety and comfort.
Fifteen months of relentless war have destroyed this sense of belonging. Although my family and I have been forced to leave several times and are still in Gaza and Palestine, I feel like an outsider.
In December 2023, we had to leave home for the first time. We fled to a “safe zone” in the Israeli-claimed al-Mawasi area of Khan Yunis. It was complete chaos when we arrived and we struggled to find a small spot on the sand to pitch our tent.
We were surrounded by people we didn’t know. Palestinians from all over Gaza have taken refuge in this area. As I walked around the camp, I only saw unfamiliar faces. People looked at me with vague glances, as if quietly asking: “Stranger, who are you?”
Al Mawasi used to be a beach where me and my friends loved to relax. It was painful to watch it turn into a concentration camp filled with people grieving the loss of their homes and loved ones.
By February we had to evacuate to Rafah. One million homeless people have flocked to southern cities after Israeli occupation forces issued forced eviction orders across the Gaza Strip. We were among them.
Its streets and public places were crowded with displaced people pitching tents wherever they could find a space. But to me the place looked like a desert, barren and inhospitable.
My family and I, like other displaced people, lived in tents in constant dire conditions. If I had the money, I would wander the alleys of the city every day and try to find food. I often went home empty-handed.
Occasionally, I would meet someone I knew, such as a friend or relative, and I would experience moments of joy followed by deep sadness. Joy when I learned they were still alive quickly turned to sadness when they told me that someone we knew had been martyred.
Friends and relatives never fail to comment on my significant weight loss, pale face, and frail body. They often admitted that they didn’t recognize me at first glance.
There were times when I returned to my tent with a tight feeling in my chest, overwhelmed by a sense of alienation. Not only was I surrounded by strangers, but I had become a stranger to those who knew me.
The suffering of the displaced people was continuous and intolerable. Nothing could top that, except news of new evictions. The news usually came in the form of leaflets dropped over us by Israeli fighter jets. We quickly gathered our belongings because we knew these fighters would be back soon. Loaded with more bombs instead of leaflets.
In April, the Israelis distributed leaflets informing us that we would be forced to leave Rafah. We fled with small bags on our backs, carrying what little we had and the burdens we had endured: hunger, fear, and the pain of losing loved ones.
We returned to Khan Yunis in the west, which Israel claims is “safe,” only to find the site destroyed and devoid of any trace of life. Roads, shops, educational institutions, and residential buildings were all reduced to rubble.
We had to pitch a tent next to a destroyed house. I wandered the city, staring in disbelief at the scale of destruction left behind by the Israeli occupation. I no longer recognize the city I used to visit with friends.
In August, for the first time since the war began, I managed to reach the neighborhood of Bani Suheila, east of the city of Khan Yunis. I thought the alienation would end there, but it didn’t.
I walked among people who knew me and knew me, but the strange stares continued. Not because they didn’t recognize me, but because I looked worse than I’d ever seen them. They looked at me in amazement, as if I were a different person. Their gaze only deepened my sense of alienation, loneliness, and loss.
I had a hard time understanding that all the places and landmarks that once defined my hometown had been destroyed and disappeared. The house I grew up in was reduced to ashes by a huge fire caused by shelling. The inside was filled with rubble, and all our belongings were reduced to coal.
Fifteen months after the war, we are still living in displacement. Everywhere I go, people ask me, “Oh, refugee, where are you from?” Everyone is looking at me strangely. I lost everything, and the only thing left that I wanted to get rid of through this war was my sense of alienation. I have become a stranger in my hometown.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
