Na’ima al-Habash lived in her home in the Sudaniyya neighborhood in northern Gaza before the war. Photo: Hadeel Awad

My grandmother, Na’ima al-Habash, lived through two Nakbas: the first was in 1948 when she was a 5-year-old child, uprooted from her home by the Israeli army without understanding why, and the second in 2023 when she lost her home again at the age of 85, now unable to move on her own.

My grandmother was born in the Palestinian coastal town of Hamama, a quiet village about two kilometers (1.24 miles) from the sea, known for its white houses, cultivated lands, and the strong bonds of its people. Hamama was destroyed in October 1948 by Israel, and an Israeli farm was built on its ruins.

When she speaks of her life before the Nakba, she doesn’t recall events or dates, but rather a clear feeling: a familiar home, a mother who was always present, and land she knew intimately. She says that life was simple yet understandable, and everything was in its place.

She didn’t understand the meaning of displacement, armies, refugees, borders, or politics. But she understood one thing: Her little world was falling apart. She remembers her mother’s hand, which gripped her with a strength borne of fear.

She remembers the sounds more than the images: overlapping screams, the cries of women and children, men talking rapidly and feet moving in every direction. She remembers the dust that filled the air, making it difficult to breathe, and she remembers trying to look behind her to see her house, which receded further with every step she took forward. With her little eyes, she searched for the wooden door, the window, the corner where she used to sit. No one told her that this look might be her final goodbye.

She recalls asking her mother, “When will we go back?” And the answer was always, “Soon.” She grew up remembering that word — soon — and how it transformed from a simple promise to a child into a wait that stretched for nearly 77 years. It saddens her that her entire life was built on the memory of a place where she wasn’t allowed to grow up.

Na’ima, who now lives in a tent, in January 2026. Photo: Hadeel Awad

They left, believing their absence was temporary and that they would return in a few days. They left their belongings in their places, and the beds made as if their return were imminent. No one imagined that their departure would be permanent.

In 2004, her husband died after years of patient struggle. Na’ima felt that a part of her life had crumbled, that one of the pillars of her stability had vanished. She remained in her house, located in the Sudaniyya neighborhood in northern Gaza, where her 13 children were raised. Yet her house remained standing. 

Then came October 2023, and her house was completely destroyed by the Israeli army. In an instant, she lost the only place where she truly felt at home, and the entire family lost their sense of security and stability. Her family was displaced, and today her children and nearly 70 grandchildren live in tents. 

Today, my grandmother Na’ima moves between her daughters’ makeshift tents, carrying a small bag containing her medicine and some clothes. She sits in her wheelchair and tries to minimize her needs and appear strong in front of her children and grandchildren, but deep down, she grieves for the sense of stability she once had. 

She says that losing her home at this age is completely different from losing it in childhood. At five, the fear was fleeting and her mother could comfort her. Today, she is a grandmother, the one who is supposed to be a source of security for others, yet she finds herself in need of reassurance. She relies on her daughters for everything: movement, food, making her bed, even using the toilet. What burdens her most is not the physical pain, but the feeling that she no longer has a stable place to belong.

In the tent, she sleeps on a thin mattress on the ground, which intensifies her back pain. In the summer, the tent becomes a suffocating space; in the winter, the cold seeps into her bones. When the rain falls, the old anxiety returns. The sound of rain on the nylon doesn’t bring her comfort; instead, it awakens memories of another tent from decades ago. She says that in her village of Hamama, rain used to be a sign of good fortune and the planting season, but now it’s a test of endurance.

Sometimes she watches her grandchildren playing between the tents and fears that the tent will become normalized in their minds. So she always reminds them: “You are not children of a tent; you are children of the land.” She worries that displacement might become a permanent feature of their lives.

The camp where Na’ima al-Habash lives. Photo: Hadeel Awad

She repeats this phrase to instill in them the certainty that their roots are deeper than displacement, older than the tent, and stronger than forced migration.

Comparing the displacement of 1948 to the displacement of 2023, she says the only difference is awareness and helplessness. In the first, she was a child being led without understanding; in the second, she is an elderly woman being led as well, but she understands what is happening and can do nothing.

She says, “A child forgets, but an adult remembers and grows weary…and all that remains is patience.” Na’ima al-Habash’s story is not an isolated case, but a living testament that the Nakba has not ended, only changed its form. Seventy-seven years ago, she was a child displaced from Hamama; today she is an elderly woman living in a genocide zone. In the intervening years, her life unfolded, governed by the same loss. But what has not been defeated is memory, and she holds tightly to it.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.