My grandfather Hamdi was only eight years old when his family fled Bir al-Sabaa, a town in southern Palestine once known for its fertile land and agricultural lifestyle. His father, Abdel-Raouf, was a farmer who owned nearly 1,000 dunams of land, grew wheat and sold his harvest to Gazan merchants. The family lived a happy and comfortable life.
In October 1948, several months after European Zionist forces declared the creation of the State of Israel, Israeli forces attacked Bir al-Sabaa, leaving thousands of Palestinians, including my grandfather’s family, under threat of genocide. was forced to flee.
“We fled Bir al-Sabaa when the militia arrived,” my grandfather often told me. “My father thought it was only temporary. We left our home, land and animals behind and thought we would come back. But that never happened. ”
Hamdi’s family fled on foot and by horse-drawn carriage. They thought they would be banned for a few weeks, but it turned out to be a permanent ban. Like 700,000 other Palestinians, they were survivors of what is now called the Nakba.
Hamdi’s family fled to Gaza and stayed with relatives and temporary shelters. Relatives helped him buy a small piece of land in Gaza’s Tufa district, just 70 kilometers (40 miles) from his home in Bir al-Sabah, which the Israelis renamed Beersheba. Hamdi’s family struggled to rebuild their lives.
Seventy-five years after my grandfather went through painful displacement, grief, and the struggle for survival, my family and I similarly fell victim to the Nakba.
At 4 a.m. on October 13, 2023, my mother’s phone rang. We were all sleeping in a room in our home in Gaza City’s Lemal neighborhood, seeking solace from the constant sounds of drones and fighter jets overhead. The phone call woke us all up.
It was a prerecorded message from the Israeli military warning us that our home was in a danger zone and that we were ordered to move south. When we ran outside, we were horrified and saw Israeli leaflets with the same warning scattered everywhere. We had no choice but to pack our clothes and bedding and flee.
This wasn’t the first time we were forced to leave our homes. Since I was 12 years old, I have experienced the horror of Israel’s attack on Gaza. We have been displaced many times and forced to live in fear and anxiety.
From the age of 12, I learned to distinguish the distinctive sounds of bombs, F-16 jets, Apache helicopters, and drones. I know the horror they bring.
Previous evacuations had been temporary, but just as my grandfather believed that his family would return someday, we hoped that this time too would be the same.
However, there are currently no prospects for his return. Our house was heavily damaged by Israeli tanks. The upper floors were destroyed by fire, and the entire walls of the lower floors were destroyed. All our belongings were destroyed.
All I have is my handbag with the clothes I brought with me on October 13th.
We headed to As Zawaida in central Gaza to stay with relatives. Along the way, we saw thousands of other Palestinians dragging bags of clothes and searching for safety.
From our temporary shelter, we saw the suffering of exile in the corners of each crowded room. We shared an apartment with 47 other people, bound by the terrifying fear that nowhere was safe. We spent two months in a crowded apartment near Salah al-Din Street. Eventually, we were forced to relocate to another house in the area due to the constant explosions.
On January 5, the sound of sharp sniper shots and gunfire intensified. Then came the roar of cannon and bombs. We collected what little money we had and fled to Deir El Bala.
We were forced to live in an eight-person tent for three months before moving into a small, poorly insulated room on a friend’s property. We spend the winter here. The rain seeps through the nylon windows and the cold is unbearable, making it impossible to sleep most nights.
We have struggled to secure the most basic necessities of food and water. For the past two days, we have been forced to survive on contaminated water and a loaf of bread. Hunger robs us of strength and hope.
I now understand the Nakba of 1948 in a way I never have before. It is a story that my grandparents have repeated within our generation, but within the confines of Gaza. And to be honest, it feels even worse than the Nakba of 1948. Weapons used today are far more advanced and cause unprecedented destruction and mass casualties. This is something my grandparents could not have imagined in 1948.
Pain is not just physical. It’s also psychological. Witnessing the unthinkable – constant fear, loss of loved ones, struggle for basic survival – has taken a huge toll. Sleepless nights are haunted by the deafening roar of rockets and memories of dismembered bodies and abandoned homes. When you look at the members of your family, you can see how much their faces have changed. Their blank eyes and silent tears speak volumes. As I walk down the street, I see communities known for their generosity and unity shattered by loss and destruction.
It is clear that Israel’s objective is to drive the Palestinians out of historic Palestine by any means necessary. The fear of being expelled from Gaza is immense. Houses are reduced to rubble, entire neighborhoods are destroyed, and our exile feels imminent. I never imagined leaving my home, but now that I have lost everything, Gaza no longer feels like a place to live, but a graveyard of despair and loss.
There is no Palestinian who is not affected by forced displacement or the fear of losing their homeland forever. The Nakba is truly the never-ending story of Palestine.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
