When Israel’s war on Gaza began and we got ready to leave our house, I packed makeup and a favourite book – items that now might seem superfluous. I thought that small reminders of home would bring comfort while we were away waiting out the latest assault.
But I didn’t expect to be gone so long – none of us did. We thought this war would be like all the others and it would take a week, maybe a month or two, for the Israeli army to unleash its rage.
Now that I’ve lived more than 10 months away from home – the idea of it – is what I miss most. I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy reading on my rooftop or sleeping in my bed again. Is my home even recognisable? I wonder. And will I ever have a home again?
I was born in 2002 and raised in Gaza City. I’ve spent 17 of my 21 years living under siege, surviving at least five Israeli military assaults on Gaza. But none of those compare to the length and intensity of this current genocide.
These are the cruellest, most painful and surreal days any of us here in Gaza have experienced. For more than 10 months, it has felt like we are reliving the same day over and over – except each day the heartache intensifies. It is always a bomb, a bullet, a shelling, a wave of fright. As the death toll soars, it feels like we are getting further away from negotiations to end this hell.
Israel has killed at least 40,005 Palestinians in Gaza. The death toll could be actually closer to 186,000, say researchers writing in the medical journal The Lancet, with countless bodies still trapped under bombed buildings and unknown numbers of people dying from starvation, lack of medical care and collapses in public infrastructure.
Those of us living through this hell already know that the death toll is higher. There are houses near us that have been bombed with people inside but until now, no one has been able to clear away the rubble.
With every bomb dropped, we ask ourselves: “Where do we go? Where can we go?”
To me, home was not just my house. It was the feeling of safety within the warmth of its walls, seeing my dresses, the comfort of my pillow. It was the sound of my mother moving around inside. It was the mouthwatering smell of my favourite dish, musakhan – sumac-spiced roast chicken with caramelised onion flatbread – filling up the house.
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