Displacement has a way of stripping life down to its most basic elements. On February 6, 2024, my family and I were forcibly displaced from northern Gaza to Nuseirat in the middle of the Strip.

For seven months, a makeshift tent made out of nylon has been our home. Blankets are spread on the ground for sleeping. Twenty relatives share this tent. Personal space does not exist, which is why I did not register for the online course announced by my university. During the day, I go with my dad to the market to buy food. Sometimes I walk to the sea to breathe deeply and calm my soul.

There is little room for the lighter aspects of life. Conversations focus on daily survival, the loss of loved ones, the relentless fear of further violence, and shared memories. We follow the news, hoping the negotiations will be successful.

Children play games, draw imaginative pictures, read, and create plays that offer a brief escape from war.

When the children fly kites, I remember Dr. Refaat Alareer’s last poem:

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
…sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above,
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love.

The hard earth beneath me

Morning begins with stiffness because the only padding under my body is a winter jacket. No pillow cradles my weary head. Hellishly hot weather makes it difficult to breathe. The constant mosquitoes stinging our bodies make sleep difficult. The hard earth beneath me is a constant reminder of the comfort I once took for granted.

Daily life is made of countless tasks that are labor intensive and humbling. My brother fills water gallons after waiting in long, unending lines, a ritual that consumes precious time and energy. My mom cooks over an open wood fire instead of a gas stove. Smoky air and uneven heat make preparing meals challenging.

If I want to drink tea or coffee, I wait about 20 minutes for the water to boil on the fire. Vegetables, fruit, and chicken are available at an unaffordable price.

Toilet paper and hot showers with clean water are unimaginable luxuries. Showers are rudimentary bottles of water heated by the sun. Soap is an expensive luxury. A clean cloth to wash with is precious. To maintain basic comforts, men work tirelessly collecting and chopping wood.

Israeli drones buzz above us along with the sound of rockets, tanks, bullets, and Apache helicopters. The resonant boom from tank artillery leaves shockwaves that can be felt along with the shadow of death.

Fear grips our hearts with each loud and ominous sound of missiles. We are told, “If you hear the sound of a missile you will not die because the missile is faster than the sound. The missile that will kill you will not be heard!”

My cell phone is the only link that keeps me in touch with family and friends in the north. I try to call every day, which is not easy because it takes five hours to charge my phone.

Our conversations are filled with nostalgia for a time when life was more secure. We dream about the war ending and returning home. We discuss our current struggles; people in northern Gaza are starving, with only canned food to eat, if they are lucky. They lack medicine and medical treatment. Their suffering saddens and hurts me.

A monochromatic existence

It is unbelievable that this genocide will soon mark one year. Are we going to spend another autumn like this, another winter or spring? Will this war ever end? Gaza is our prison. We are forgotten by the world. That is excruciatingly painful.

Every moment slips through our fingers like sand in an hourglass. We are aging. We are in decline. As time drags on, the vibrant colors of youthful enthusiasm and dreams fade into a monochromatic existence. Navigating through unrelenting hardship leaves us with a sense of melancholy. Our existence is an endless twilight.

I long for the simple pleasures of home. I yearn for the convenience of drinking a hot cup of tea prepared on a gas stove. I miss the comfort of eating in a clean, insect-free home, the peacefulness of sleeping in a bed with soft pillows, of drinking a glass of cold water from the refrigerator, taking a shower with shampoo in our bathroom, and wearing clothes washed in a washing machine.

I yearn for the days I was studying at the university and exploring Shakespeare and reading poetry. I long to share this passion with friends; to dress nicely, to be surrounded by personal belongings in my room where books are scattered across the desk.

I miss staying up all night preparing for lectures. I even miss looking at my face in the mirror. These are not just conveniences but symbols of a life that now feels distant and unattainable. But I am determined to hold onto my dignity.

Home

Home is a word that holds much comfort and warmth.

I long for my home in Gaza City. I yearn to watch the sunset from our balcony. I long to see the trees and green nature and to listen to the birdsong from the window of my room.

I long to lean against the concrete walls that made me feel safe in all seasons. I miss every single corner, street, and neighborhood in Gaza. I miss the unique scent of Gaza City, the most beautiful city in the world.

The dream of returning to a normal life fuels my endurance. Being by the sea gives me strength. Israel cannot destroy the sea.

A lack of electricity allows the stars to twinkle brighter. Before going to sleep, I say to myself, “Breathe, Huda, breathe. This war will end and you will return to your Gaza, your home, and your life! This hell will surely end.”