As a Palestinian in Gaza, I have been through many wars. Even though these relentless attacks against us are part of an ongoing reality, the war that we are living through today is different from all the other ones we have suffered. It is a war of genocide and starvation — and also of the consistent expulsion of our people from one place to another.

After 215 brutal days of aggression, the Israeli occupation ordered the people displaced in Rafah, my family and I included, to go to other areas in advance of its ground invasion of the small city. The smell of death was already everywhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about whether it would be best to stay in Rafah and continue my work as a nurse at a makeshift medical point, or again chase false promises of safety into the unknown.

Under nylon tents held together by wooden sticks, the summer sun had been unforgiving. However, the unbearable heat of the long days didn’t even come close to what we endured after the darkness of night encompassed us. I will never forget the terror of these nights — the sound of planes and bombs hunting us from all directions. A million and a half of us, cramped into the 54 square kilometers that is Rafah, all wondering if we will be injured, or even alive, by morning.

The occupier said that we would be safe here, but we quickly learned that wasn’t so. Why would it be any different in the next “safe” zone? It is not lost on us that our people trying to survive in these punishing tent cities have already suffered from extremely violent bombing campaigns, in this war and all the preceding ones. We have lost family members and friends — and we know that more will die. At any moment, the dreaded news can come.

We talk a lot with each other about how these days will pass, when the war will end, and what our ultimate fate will be. And when camps are evicted, we talk about what to do and weigh our options together. We had hoped for a moment to catch our collective breath here, even despite the awful conditions, but that was not to be. Everyone is just trying to survive. For us right now, that means ensuring today’s food and water supply. Will it be available if we pick up our tents and put them up elsewhere?

What is more difficult than dismantling the tents and fleeing is the way people look at each other. We have moved from one place to another so many times that I’ve lost count — but the look in the eyes of those staring at a tent about to be dismantled is difficult to describe. It expresses misery, confusion, loss, anxiety, fear, and dullness all at once.

I feel all of these things as I watch our displaced people being displaced again, exiting the street gates with the camp at their backs.

And I think I have the same look in my eyes.

It is reflected in the eyes of a woman packing up her tent and gazing up at the sky, lamenting, “You are more affectionate to us than all the world!”

I see it again in the eyes of another woman balancing bread on her head. “OK, where should we go?” she asks.

A man who just returned from the “safe zone” explains, “I came back because there was no space left for me there.”

Everyone follows the sounds of these voices to those who speak the words. We exchange that look that says more than language could ever express.

I was among the last to leave and went for a final walk through my displacement camp, where almost everyone had disappeared — forced yet again into the unknown. One of the few remaining sellers grabbed a bullhorn and began calling in a weak voice, “Goodbye, Rafah.”

Tears welled up in my eyes.

And as I looked at the defeated faces of those still fleeing, I was overwhelmed with helplessness — with the lack of help, hidden tears, oppressed men, fragile women. We are bound together by a future that is not ours to decide. The burden of disappointment was heavy as I cried about the state of a nation where everyone is tired and there is no life.

Gaza is slowly dying. All of our children, women, and youth are besieged and threatened with death at any moment. In the blink of an eye, someone’s story ends — and graves to shelter us in death are becoming just as scarce as the homes meant to shelter us while we are living.