I arrived at the bustling Cairo metro station around 2 p.m. The air was thick with the scents of roasting peanuts and exhaust fumes. Vendors called out their wares, and the rhythmic clatter of departing trains reverberated through the humid air. I clutched my small notebook, its edges crumpled from countless scribbled reflections, hoping to document the lives of Gazans who had fled to Egypt after the war.

Months earlier, my family and I had crossed the Rafah border, fleeing a life that had been decimated. My study of English literature was cut short, but my passion for documenting my homeland of Gaza remained steadfast. Now that I had settled in a modest apartment in Mansoura, three hours away from Cairo, I had decided to travel to Cairo with the determination to share stories of displaced Gazans with the world. I recognized echoes of the same sentiment in each story I heard: the even greater levels of brutality of this war on Gaza never seen before, the devastation of multiple displacements, the depletion of savings on costly border permits. Gazans in Egypt brought no possessions, no jobs, and no prospects — only the crushing yearnings and sorrow for loved ones and homes they left behind.

Umm Ahmad

My first interview was in a dimly lit, overcrowded apartment in Nasr City, a neighborhood in Cairo. Umm Ahmad, a mother of three, sat on a worn-out sofa. Her youngest son — he couldn’t have been older than five — was clinging to her knee. I had met her by chance during one of my outings to Cairo and, quickly recognizing her dialect, arranged for a meeting soon after.

She welcomed me warmly, offering a cup of mint tea. Our conversation drifted to the memories of Gaza, shattered like shards of broken glass. Her voice trembled as she recounted when the airstrikes closed in on her neighborhood.

“We ran when the bombing got too close,” she said, her hands clutching the tea glass tightly. “Our house was gone in seconds.”

I asked her how she managed to escape; she explained that she had carried her children and fled with them between her arms. Her husband hadn’t made it. While trying to shield his family, shrapnel struck him, and he died before their eyes.

Tears streamed down her face as she recalled that moment when she lost her husband and had to find a way to survive. “I couldn’t stay in Gaza after that,” she admitted. “The war has taken everything from me.”

She described the chaos at the Rafah border: the endless waiting, the bone-chilling cold, and the constant fear of being turned away. After paying exorbitant fees, she and her children finally made it to Egypt. “Here, we’re alive,” she said quietly. “But it doesn’t feel like living.”

The rent for their cramped one-room apartment was rapidly depleting what little savings they had left. With no job and an uncertain future, she worried about her children’s fate. While I spoke, her tears overcame her and I paused to console and calm her.

Umm Ahmad’s story mirrored so many others I had heard, including my own. Listening to her, I felt an overwhelming surge of pain and solidarity. Her words pulled me back into my own memories of displacement, moments I had tried to suppress but could never forget. I promised to visit her again, wishing I could do more to help.

Youssef

Later that day, I met Youssef, a former civil engineering student from Gaza, at a crowded café in downtown Cairo. Youssef now works as a waiter. Balancing a tray of steaming coffee cups, he explained, “I dreamed of building. Now, I’m just trying to survive.”

We sat down, and he shared how he had crossed the border alone, leaving his family behind in Khan Younis. “My mother begged me to go,” he said, his voice breaking. “She told me, ‘You have to live — for us.’”

Youssef had hoped to find a better life in Egypt, but the reality was far from what he had imagined. Without legal residency and with an expired visa, he struggled to find stable work. Most of his meager earnings went back to Gaza, sent in hopes of helping his family endure.

He talked about the long hours he worked and the discrimination he often faced as a Gazan refugee. “People don’t understand what it’s like,” he said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “They think we have a choice, but we left because there was no choice.”

As he spoke, I was struck by the quiet determination in his voice. Youssef’s life had been upended, yet he clung to hope, believing that even the smallest act of survival was an act of resistance.

Reflections by the Nile

That evening, I sat by the Nile, its waters shimmering under the fading sun. The gentle waves seemed to carry whispers of the stories I had collected. The river’s vastness reminded me of Gaza’s enduring spirit — a resilience as deep and unwavering as the current.

Umm Ahmad’s determination to protect her children, Youssef’s refusal to give up on his dreams, and the countless other voices I had yet to hear — they all lingered with me, their weight almost too much to bear. The grief and courage in their words swirled within me, leaving me both inspired and burdened.

I had planned to meet my friend later that evening but felt too overwhelmed to take on more stories. I called to postpone, retreating instead to my aunt’s apartment in Cairo, where I stayed for the night.

Reunion with Salsabeel

The following morning, I woke up early to meet my dear friend Salsabeel, someone I hadn’t seen in over a year. We had been classmates at Al-Azhar University in Gaza, studying English translation together, until the war tore our lives apart.

My heart leapt with joy when I saw her. Her radiant smile was a comforting reminder of our shared history. We embraced tightly, our hug filled with unspoken emotions. She invited me to meet her family in their modest apartment, a place that bore the weight of their recent struggles.

Salsabeel began recounting the family’s harrowing escape from Gaza in October 2023. With nothing but a few clothes, they left their home in the hope of returning soon, only to discover later that their building had been completely destroyed. Over the first week of the war, they moved between five locations — first to Khan Younis, then finally to a school in Rafah, where the entire family shared a cramped 30-square-foot room.

Her father, once a dermatologist and landowner, lost everything. Her mother, who had worked in NGO project management, was now struggling to provide stability for the family. Her brother Omar, a talented digital artist who had just opened his own studio in Gaza, also had his dream uprooted. Her sister Bara’, a recent graduate from Al-Azhar University, had been on the brink of signing her first job contract as a proposal writer before the war erupted.

The family ultimately decided to leave Gaza because of her father’s chronic medical condition and Omar’s ongoing battle with cancer, diagnosed in 2020. Both required specialized treatment and medication that were no longer accessible.

“It was the hardest decision we’ve ever made,” Salsabeel said, her voice laced with emotion. “We knew the war had destroyed our home, but it also wiped out all our financial assets.”

They managed to cross the Rafah border after paying $32,500 in fees — $5,000 for each adult and $2,500 for her youngest brother, 14-year-old Abdulrahman. Fortunately, friends who had already arrived in Egypt helped them secure a furnished apartment in the Fifth Settlement, a sprawling new neighborhood on the outskirts of Cairo known for its wealthy gated communities.

“We were stunned by the sheer size of Cairo,” her father remarked. “Gaza City feels like half the size of the Fifth Settlement alone.”

Now, the family members are slowly rebuilding their lives. Abdulrahman and Aya, her youngest siblings, continue their studies online through an initiative launched by the Palestinian Authority. Omar has resumed digital art remotely, while Salsabeel and Bara’ volunteer with Palestine Network, a grassroots organization helping Gazan families in Cairo regain a sense of dignity and stability.

Despite their resilience, the scars of loss were evident. Salsabeel herself has resumed her studies online but often felt the weight of balancing academics with the ongoing trauma. “We may be in a new place,” she said, “but a part of us is still in Gaza.”

Their courage and determination moved me deeply. Though they insisted I stay for lunch, I chose to keep my visit brief, not wanting to impose on them further. As I hugged Salsabeel goodbye, I promised to see her again soon.

A promise to keep writing

As I boarded the metro back home, I closed my notebook, its pages filled with the voices of my people. Each story etched itself into my heart, a solemn reminder of the strength and resilience of Gaza’s displaced.

Through my writing, I hoped to give these stories something enduring — a voice that could not be ignored. These tales of survival weren’t just about the pain of displacement; they were about hope, dignity, and an unshakable will to return home.