So much of real life takes place in gatherings around the dining room table. It’s where we form our warmest memories and strongest bonds, but our family’s dining room table is empty. It wasn’t always that way.

My first breath, and those of my siblings, were taken in Saudi Arabia. Our parents had settled there, seeking financial stability and a better life. We were far away from our land, our beloved Palestine, but our hearts were full of it.

Father stays behind to support the family

Years passed only to reveal I was unable to enter the kindergarten life every child is excited about, just because my roots arise from Palestinian soil. My desperate parents refused to deny me the chance of an education and made the difficult decision to move the family to Egypt. My father was compelled to remain behind. He couldn’t quit his job and leave us unsupported. My mother struggled to be everything and everyone to us all, but for a six-year-old like me, the roles of mother and father were a complex riddle. So, I started a new chapter, with my older brother and sister, Khalid and Esra, raising me and filling the gap in my heart where my parents were supposed to be.

However, life in Egypt wasn’t promising, either. While in Saudi Arabia I was the only one among my siblings to be barred from study, in Egypt we were all rejected. Both Khalid and Esra ended up homeschooled, and I had nothing but the lessons my mother taught me.

After three years in pursuit of our basic right to education, we finally decided to return to Gaza, being the only place in the world to accept me without complications. I began my school life in the third grade, although the other children my age were a year ahead of me. But that is what makes me special, I guess.

More years passed, and I hadn’t met my father, not even once. Ironically, I wasn’t bothered much because Khalid had become my father. He did everything for me. He taught me to recite the holy Qur’an, planting the seed of a good Muslim in me. We went to Kung Fu classes together, because he always said, “a powerful girl will fear nothing.” He bought me books to expand my horizons so that I could develop into a confident, independent woman of the future.  He was the one who taught me to speak English. It was his shoulders I’d throw myself against crying, his ears which listened to my ridiculous childish miseries, and his hand that would pat my shoulder to reassure me. He was my father, brother, and friend. He was my rock.

Brother leaves for a better life

Back then, I thought that I was living in paradise, with me the happiest I could be. But my rose-tinted glasses were shielding me from the truth. Khalid wasn’t happy. He couldn’t endure the situation in Gaza, and his patience waned after the 2014 aggression. Witnessing his beloved family on the edge of life countless times in 52 days was enough for him to hate everything that caused such traumas. Khalid made it his goal to establish a new life outside, in the hope that someday he could reunite his family in a safer place. He bought a ticket to Turkey.

I still remember the last dinner we shared with Khalid. The dining table was laden with the simple dishes he enjoyed most — falafel, hummus, scrambled eggs, and dates, all enjoyed with unsweetened black tea. I sat right in front of him to observe his every move and store them in his corner of my heart. I still remember how warm our last hug was.

The next morning, I woke to his empty bed. I realized then that my life would never be complete, or normal. Another seat at the table was empty, one for the father I had never known, and now a seat for the brother who had filled his vacant shoes.

I couldn’t satisfy my longing for Khalid with a video call or a virtual chat. No technology can replace physical presence. Four autumns passed without Khalid returning to Gaza. We made countless attempts to escape of the claws of siege to meet him, but each attempt was met with failure: a closed border, an aggression that severed any contact with the outside world, or hollow pockets of promise that took us nowhere.

Sister departs to pursue artistic opportunities

My father was absent, my brother was gone, and the only other one whom I could trust with all of who I am was my sister Esra. She was the tender touch that could heal, and she was no less important than Khalid. I can’t rank them. It would be like asking a child to choose between his mother and father. Her favorite will always be both

As the only sisters in the family, Esra and I were even more than friends. We not only shared girlish talks about makeup and dressing tips, but she reassured me if I occasionally stumbled in my grades. She would say, “Whatever your result, you worked hard for it. I love you for your effort, not a rank or temporary grade.” Esra also taught me to be better natured, polite, and understanding

My eyes were always the first to see her artwork. Yes, she’s an artist, and a passionate one, too. She creates beauty with line and color. She sheds light on the ordinary and makes it extraordinary. I loved to stand near her with her brushes and palette, watching her hands give birth to a new child in her artistic family.

I can’t count how many times we argued about housework duties, though. I was too sassy to admit that housework was important.

Then last year, Esra got an amazing chance to travel. She received a job offer in the art field that would spark her journey to financial independence. That also meant she could travel to see Khalid. The angel and devil inside me began to wrestle.

“Just don’t let her go!” I said to my mother. “You can’t handle another empty seat at your table.”

“That’s right, but who are you to obstruct such an amazing opportunity for your precious sister? Don’t be childish.”

In the end the angel wished her well. “May Allah protect you and bless your journey,” were the last words she heard from me, accompanied by a spine-cracking hug that lasted an eternity. Then she was gone.

No one left to share breakfast with

I drowned myself in a harsh college schedule and a pile of books. I was rewarded with high grades, and prided myself on not yielding to despair. However, all those good intentions to remain busy and strong collapsed the first minute I sat alone at the end of the semester with time on my hands. It was hard. I couldn’t bear seeing another seat empty, and I failed to contain my tears.

Now my dining table offers no one to share even a simple breakfast with me. No father to give advice, no Khalid to make a special place beside him for me to sit, and no Esra to manage the bones in my fish or chicken. I wonder how long it will take to stop visualizing their presence, their full plates, and their soulful warmth. I wonder how long it will take to fill the gaps in my heart.

Virginia Woolf once remarked, “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” But I cannot dine well at my empty dining table. The truth is that for me and so many fellow Palestinians, empty places at the table have become a heartbreaking fact of life.