As the war began, I was a 25-year-old pharmacist, both working and pursuing a master’s degree in sustainable development at Al-Quds University. Life in Gaza had its challenges, but I cherished my routine. My days were filled with studying, working, and spending time with my family, who always take care of me. My dreams were simple: to finish my master’s degree, work on the development of Palestine, and continue living a fulfilling life surrounded by my loved ones.

On October 6th, 2023, my family — my father Jamal, my mother Samar, and my siblings Maram, Karam (15) , Hala (16), and I — went to the beach. We drove around the city, enjoying the calm, not knowing it was a farewell tour. In the evening, we celebrated my sister Maram’s 29th birthday. A talented engineer, Maram had always been my inspiration. We sang, ate, and laughed together, taking pictures.

On the morning of October 7, Maram and I bolted awake at 6 a.m., confused by the terrifying sounds outside. My mother was getting my younger siblings, Karam and Hala, ready for school. My father was having breakfast after praying alfajer. We turned on the TV to find out what was happening. All the channels were broadcasting news titled, “Morning of October 7th.” Things remained chaotic and incomprehensible until nightfall.

I remember the first night of the war vividly — the way the ground shook beneath our feet and the sky lit up with flashes of fire. I had faced four previous wars but never heard any sounds like these!

Deep down, the sheer terror of what we witnessed made me realize that this time was different, unlike anything we had ever experienced. I clung to my parents, their faces etched with fear and confusion, unsure of how to protect their children.

All of us gathered in the back room of our house, believing it was the safest spot. We shared the same grim thought: If something happens, at least we would all go together, sparing any of us from mourning the others.

Day after day, the explosions became more intense and caused more damage. The walls, which had witnessed countless moments of joy, now trembled under the weight of dread. As the bombardments grew closer to us, we knew we could be killed at any time and were forced to flee from our home. We only took important things — our formal documents and electronic devices — and left everything else behind, hoping that we would only be gone for a few days.

In the rush of our escape, I regret that I did not take a last look at my beloved home.

Life in displacement

I can’t forget what I saw on our way to the south. It was like watching scenes from a World War II movie. Nothing was the same. Buildings that once stood tall were now rubble. The streets were eerily silent, except for the sound of hurried footsteps and the occasional blast.

In our displacement in southern Gaza, we lived in a tent. Every day was a struggle for survival.

We scoured the streets for food, navigating through rubble and wreckage. The once-bustling markets were now ghost towns, their stalls abandoned, their goods almost gone. Electricity, food, and clean water were scarce. We had to adapt to difficult conditions quickly. With no access to gas or electricity, we had to rely on wood to bake and heat water. We used a makeshift kitchen to prepare our bread by hand and cook over an open flame. We washed our clothes by hand in small bowls with whatever water was available.

During this time, my father made a heart-wrenching decision. He wanted me, my mother, and two sisters to leave Gaza and seek safety elsewhere. It felt impossible to leave my father and two older brothers behind. Ramy (32) and Waleed (33) had chosen to stay. They believed it was their duty to protect what little remained of our home. I wondered how I could walk away from people who had given me everything.

I had survived the war for six months, and leaving Gaza was never a part of my plan. My home, the people I love, and all my memories are tied to Gaza. It’s not just a location on a map; it is where my life had unfolded, filled with moments of joy, love, and shared dreams. But the war worsened, and my world was unravelling.

The dawn of the day I left Gaza was not typical. It was interrupted by the echoes of explosions and the silence of a battered and scarred city. As I prepared to leave, my heart ached with a heaviness that words could not express. The war had taken so much from us — our peace, security, and future — and now it was demanding even more: a physical distance that would separate us.

Munia left Gaza on the morning of April 15 and fled to Egypt. Photo: Munia Jamal Abusayma

Leaving my heart in Gaza

As I crossed into Egypt on April 15, the contrast was jarring. The lights in the streets were steady and bright, a luxury I had not known in months. The internet, often disrupted and unreliable in Gaza, was now at my fingertips, connecting me to a world that seemed to have moved on, despite the suffering of the Gazan people. Food was plentiful, and water flowed freely — a stark reminder of the deprivation my father and brothers endured daily.

I am haunted by guilt. How can I enjoy the comfort of electricity while my family endures the darkness? How can I sit in front of a plentiful meal, knowing that back home, every bite is a struggle? Every time I turn on the tap, I remember the water shortages in Gaza.

Communication with my father and brothers is infrequent. They have to walk long distances to find an internet connection through an eSIM, just to send us brief messages that they are okay. But I know the truth — they are not okay. The relentless bombing, the fear, and constant state of alert have worn them down. And here I am, in a world where the sun rises and sets with a normalcy that seems almost foreign. I walk the streets of Egypt, surrounded by people whose lives are untouched by the chaos I left behind. Their conversations are light, their worries distant. And yet, I cannot escape the shadow of my past. Gaza is not just a place, but a part of who I am. Leaving it behind has been a journey into the unknown, a quest for safety wrapped in pain and guilt.

Did I make the right decision?

As I move forward, I hold onto the hope that one day the sky over Gaza will clear and peace will return. Every day I think about those who are still there. I can’t help but question why we, Gazans, have been condemned to this misery. What sins have we committed to deserve such a life? Why should young people, who should be advancing their education and starting jobs, be trapped in a reality filled with fear and destruction?

I often wonder if my decision to leave was right. I navigate this new world with a heavy heart. I left for my survival, but it feels like a betrayal.

The memories of my family and the shattered remnants of our life and home haunt my thoughts. I can only hope that somehow someday we will reunite. Until then, I am left with even more gnawing questions: Am I on a journey toward hope and possibility? Or am I simply moving towards a different kind of suffering, one that has yet to unfold?