When I was a child, I dreamed of travelling the world, exploring new cultures and learning new things. I yearned for a journey of discovery. Living in Gaza felt 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 sanctuary and a cage – its regular rhythm comforting yet repetitive, its streets too familiar, its horizons too narrow for the aspirations I carried within me. I cherished its warmth and closeness, but the pull of life beyond its borders was irresistible. I was ready to leave the moment an opportunity came my way.
This year, I did embark on a journey, but not the one that I had dreamed of. Instead of a trip of carefree exploration abroad, I found myself on a journey navigating a genocidal war and a struggle for survival within the narrow strip of Palestinian land I call home. Along the way, I learned a lot – about myself and my inner world.
The “journey” began in January. While most people welcomed the new year under skies filled with fireworks, songs and joy, my sky delivered evacuation orders. Crumpled papers fell on us carrying a message written in Arabic: “Nuseirat camp is too dangerous. Move south for your safety.”
I never thought leaving home would be that difficult. I had always thought of myself as someone who did not have a strong connection to home or homeland. But I was wrong. Leaving felt like abandoning a part of my soul.
My family and I made our way to Rafah to stay with my aunt who gave us a warm welcome. Even though I felt some comfort there, in my mind, all I could think about was my home. So I greeted February, the “month of love”, feeling incredibly homesick and realising just how much I loved the house I had grown up in.
In mid-February, the Israeli military withdrew from Nuseirat, and we hurried back home. It was one of the best moments of the war – and of my entire life – to find my home still intact. Its front door was broken, our belongings were stolen and rubble from the bombing of our neighbour’s home had crashed inside. But it was still standing.
Although destruction surrounded us, the rubble of our neighbourhood still felt warmer than any safe place elsewhere in the world would have. For the first time in my life, I – the grandson of refugees – felt I belonged somewhere. My soul, my identity – they all belonged here.
The joy of being back home was soon overshadowed by the reality of war. March came and brought in the holy month. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and togetherness. But this year, it was filled with loss, separation and deprivation. There were no shared meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray in – only their rubble.
Instead of tranquillity, we experienced relentless bombardment and terror. The bombs fell without warning, each explosion shattering any sense of safety we may have had. We were being punished, treated as “human animals” – as their defence minister had said – for an unknown crime.
In April, Eid al-Fitr came and went, stripped of the joy that defines this cherished Muslim holiday. There was no children’s laughter to wake us in the morning, no bustling preparations or decorations to welcome guests. Death was the only visitor in Palestinian homes in Gaza.
Then May rolled in and with it an opportunity I had been waiting for my whole life. My family managed to gather enough money to pay an Egyptian company to help me leave Gaza. The process was riddled with uncertainty. There were rumours of scams, 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 whole family behind and my home with an uncertain prospect of ever coming back.
To outsiders, this might seem like a simple choice: follow your dreams, take the chance and leave! But for me, it was anything but easy.
One late afternoon, I was sitting with my sister Aya on our rooftop under a sky filled with spy planes when I came to realise the true weight of my decision. Aya, just 15 years old, was full of energy and hope, her light brown eyes shining with ambition. “I want to learn programming like you,” she said with excitement. “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 midst of war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya stayed behind, struggling to eat, to sleep, to dream? How could I live a life elsewhere, knowing my sister faced nightmares alone? How could I abandon the very land that had made me who I am?
In that moment, I realised my soul would never be free if I abandoned Gaza now, if I dismissed it as a place of rubble and ruin. I realised my identity was tied to this place, this struggle.
When I first told my family that I wanted to stay, they refused to accept it. They insisted I leave to survive, fearing for my safety. After a long back and forth, they eventually respected my decision, but their fear never fully went away.
A few days later, the Israeli army occupied the Rafah crossing, cutting off access to the outside world. I did not regret my decision.
As the Israeli army continued to attack civilian areas all over Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it was our turn to host relatives. We welcomed them not as displaced people but as our family. It is our duty to share and stand with each other in times of need. By the fall, we were 30 people in our house.
Over the summer, we began to feel the growing impact of restrictions not only on humanitarian aid but on all paid goods. Basic food items disappeared from markets. Aid organisations struggled to distribute food.
It was increasingly clear that those who survive the bombings would face a different, slower death through starvation. Food rationing became so severe that survival turned into a cruel competition. Life felt more like a jungle where only the strongest could survive.
In the fall, hunger was made worse by the rain and wind. We saw people forced to live in tents overcome by misery.
In November, a family tragedy struck. My eight-year-old cousin Ahmad, who was like a little brother to me, fell from the third floor of our building and suffered a brain haemorrhage. The thought of losing him was overwhelming.
We rushed him to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which was overcrowded with the wounded from air strikes and lacked the necessary equipment to perform brain scans. We tried to go to two nearby hospitals, only to be told they too could not do anything for him. By nightfall, we managed to find a medical centre that could help him, but it was far away. Sending him in an ambulance after dark was a huge risk – the vehicle could be targeted by a drone like so many had been. It was a choice between two deaths.
We decided to hang onto hope and sent Ahmad in the ambulance. Even in the darkest of days, miracles happen. Ahmad arrived safely, underwent the necessary surgery and survived. He began to recover although he still needs physical therapy that he cannot receive in Gaza.
As we worried and cared for Ahmad, December came. Soon we heard unexpected news from Syria: The brutal regime there had collapsed. I felt extremely happy.
In Gaza, we have stood in solidarity with the Syrian people for a long time. We know the suffering of war and oppression, and we were genuinely happy to see the Syrian people finally free. Their liberation was the first time we witnessed justice prevail, which gave us a sense of hope. It reminded us that one day, we too might experience that kind of relief, in a liberated homeland where we are no longer afraid for our lives.
As the year drew to a close, we followed carefully the news about ceasefire talks, but 2024 is now ending without a moment of relief for us Palestinians.
This yearlong journey has left its mark on me: streaks of white in my black hair, a frail body, ill-fitting clothes, dark shadows beneath my eyes and a tired gaze that has lost its shine. But it is not just my physical appearance that has changed. This year has burned through my soul like wildfire.
But even ashes carry seeds. I feel that something new has emerged within me – a determination to stay behind, to persevere, to change, to withstand all attempts to erase my memories, my identity, my people.
The death and destruction have been overwhelming, but they have not managed to bring me down. If anything, I feel a deep desire to live – for many more years – in Gaza, in Palestine. I feel we owe a duty to the martyrs to resist, to stay on this land, to rebuild and to live. The responsibility of restoring our country rests on our shoulders.
I am no longer the man I once was, full of dreams of leaving Gaza and living an easy life far away. I will remain in my homeland, and I will continue to hold onto the belief that peace, no matter how fragile, can someday 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 the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.