How do you carry a home that keeps breaking?

I’ve always imagined that time had squandered itself in Gaza. You grow too quickly or not at all in a closed world that is dense, well-known, and overwhelming.

My aunts, my older cousins, and even my friends’ mothers would bring up family issues, relationships, and everyday issues with me as a child.

Not because I was rude, but because I refused to be made softer, quieter, and more acceptable, my teacher called me “the sharpened tongue.”

I occasionally slipped into the situations that made my childhood memories come to mind, such as sewing tiny outfits for my Barbie dolls with my cousins.

However, I typically sat between the world of young people who were having trouble understanding me and those who were having conversations that I had somehow understood.

The world is oblivious.

My family used to travel about an hour from our as-Sudaniya neighborhood to Rafah on Fridays via the coastal al-Rashid Street.

In one of those days, Gaza felt more like a place to live than a cage.

When my siblings and I were 12 years old, we joked about old memories, such as how my brother would pronounce words incorrectly and how little things would turn into jokes that no one else could understand.

We continued to walk to the shore as the day was enshrouded in warmth and familiarity by the smell of spiced fish and the cool sea breeze.

They are just my memories, not yours.

I was anticipating leaving always. Every girl my age was asked where she planned to study at a family gathering, and they responded, “In Gaza,” by naming nearby universities as if the question had no place in the area.

I blurted, “Study in Gaza,” when it was my turn. I’m traveling abroad. I’ll follow my father’s footsteps as a journalist.

Some people praised me. Others laughed as well. However, I already sounded the call of the outside world.

It was the first time I flew alone when I was 17 years old when I left Gaza in 2019 to study international relations, and I had a court order authorizing me to travel alone because I was under 18.

I memorized the faces of my father and my older brother, Omar, at the Rafah crossing.

The quiet panic of not knowing whether my name would be called through or be returned after I crossed into Egypt began. I spent many hours in security check rooms.

I had to pass through each stop, Cairo Airport, Istanbul, and finally Cyprus.

Because of my black passport, I was pushed aside for additional searches at every airport. I was questioned by the police about my plans to travel alone, where I was going, and what I was studying; these were simple questions that I had to pass in order to get a job elsewhere.

You no longer reside in Gaza.

I had better sleep on my first night in Cyprus than I had ever had.

My body began to panic when I woke up to a loud sound, as if it were an explosion. When I ran into the corridor, the suitcase wheels stowed across the floor.

You’re no longer in Gaza, my body and my mind both became aware of.

I looked for a mini market in the dorms that morning. I was told it was in the basement, but I ended up wandering through the corridors while trying to purchase some toast and an adapter.

Everything sounded strange, but especially the silence.

Nothing hummed, hovered, or was threatened. I almost became frightened by the stillness.

The university’s English preparation course was where we had our first meaningful conversations. Classmates from Cyprus, Turkiye, Lebanon, Morocco, and Libya shared a small classroom that resembled a tiny world.

We exchanged accents and words, and my teacher praised the speed with which I picked up new words.

I showed them pictures, then places when I told them I’m from Palestine and some people said “Pakistan” or glared at their maps vaguely.

Some students questioned whether we actually “had a life there.” One person sincerely inquired as to whether Gaza was real. My home is located in a blank space in the imagination of the world, not because of my confusion.

I once assisted an elderly man in finding a carton of milk in a market. He thanked me and mentioned that he was Israeli before introducing himself. My chest became more congenial. I kept my name to myself.

bringing Gaza into exile

Gaza started to seem far away in my first year, like a vivid dream I’d woken up from.

Every street, every bus route, and every typical morning added a layer of distance. That lasted for years until the distance fell apart on October 7, 2023, when the dream ended.

I spent time with my father, a journalist in Gaza, while we were at war, and we were monitoring him while we were waiting for his messages to show that he was still alive.

Fear struck me, and I spent months frightened to sleep.

After weeks of not falling asleep, I discovered the death of my cousin Ahmed.

Because Ahmed was born on the same day as Saddam Hussein launched Scud missiles against Israel, he was known as Saddam when he was in his 30s.

He would refer to me as “ya koshieh,” a teasing nickname for “dark-skinned one,” in a small, silly joke that somehow sounded like protection.

His death sparked an immediate and irrational sense of guilt, as if his life could have been saved by my inaction.

My uncle Iyad and his only daughter, and my uncle Nael and his wife Salwa, both of whom we lost. In a single night, Israel completely eradicated a family tree.

I began to comprehend how much of Gaza I had taken into exile.

After receiving a diagnosis, I began therapy in Cyprus, starting with talk sessions and then working on my trauma. My focus was then post-traumatic stress disorder and PTSD.

I’m now more restrained, but I don’t believe people from Gaza ever truly recover from trauma. It shifts, softens, and reappears. The goal of the work is to learn how to live while it endures rather than to “get over it.”

I frequently claim that I was born in Cyprus but was born in Palestine. Exile taught me the language, and gaza gave me the awareness.

How do you transport a home that keeps breaking, and then Oman, Egypt, added more layers to the already unanswered query?

Maybe this is why I’ve been working and planning to rebuild my life and pursuing a master’s degree in diplomacy over the past two years.

I want to learn more about the decisions that made up my childhood and the power structures that underpinned my narrative.

People frequently associate “Gaza” with “destruction.”

Like everyone else, the people of Gaza fight against evil forces that are beyond their control.

Million people have heard my story. But I hope it inspires someone to consider Gaza to be more than just a headline.

People live in Gaza.

Source: Aljazeera