Earlier this month, I stood on the sandy shore of the Mediterranean Sea, the salty breeze blowing through my hair as I stared out into the horizon. The sun was setting over the Gaza Strip, casting a golden hue over my war-torn land. I closed my eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of the sea, mingled with the faint smell of smoke, dust, and gunpowder to which we had grown accustomed.

I couldn’t help but think back to when I was a child, playing in the streets with my friends, running through the narrow alleyways of the refugee camp where I grew up. Those days felt like a lifetime ago, a distant memory amid the chaos and destruction that now engulf my homeland. Everything has changed; it’s too much for my soul to bear.

I miss the simple joys of childhood, the laughter and camaraderie of friends, the sense of community that bound us together in the face of adversity. I miss the bustling markets filled with colorful fruits and vegetables, the sound of vendors hawking their wares, the taste of falafel and hummus on my tongue.

I miss the simplicity of life in Gaza. Before Oct. 7, our days were filled with laughter and joy as we played soccer with friends in the streets or swam in the crystal-clear waters of the Mediterranean. I remember the early morning air being filled with the scent of bread baking in ovens throughout our neighborhood and the sound of the call to prayer echoing throughout the city. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where family and community were the most important things in life.

My family was torn apart

I miss my family — my parents, my siblings, my aunts, uncles, and cousins. We were a close-knit clan, bound together by love and shared experiences. We celebrated together and mourned together; we supported each other through thick and thin.

That was before the war came, before the bombs started falling, before the bullets started flying, before the homes started crumbling, before my family was torn apart, scattered to the winds like dust in a storm.

I remember the day it all changed — the day an airstrike hit our neighborhood, the day my brother Mohamed was killed. I remember the screams, the chaos, the fear that gripped my heart like a vice. I remember holding my mother as she wept for the loss of her son, my brother, and for the shattered dreams and broken promises that lay scattered at our feet.

My grandmother was quick to put it all in perspective. “We have experienced brutal wars for 75 years, leaving us with memories like an endless nightmare,” she said. “But the worst war we ever endured began on Oct. 7.”

After that day, everything changed. Suddenly, we lived in constant fear, never knowing when the next attack would come, when the next tragedy would strike. Now we find ourselves huddled together in a tent for people displaced by the war, praying for safety and peace, but finding neither.

I miss the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the taste of maqluba and moussaka from my favorite restaurants. I miss the sight of the sun setting behind the minarets of the Old City. I miss the warmth and love of my family. I miss the sense of belonging that I felt in Gaza — the feeling of being part of a community that was always there to support and uplift us. I miss the feeling of belonging, of being part of something greater than myself.

Most of all, I miss the way the community pulled together during the early days of the war. I miss the way our friends and neighbors became like family, the way they shared their food and shelter with us when we had nothing left, the way strangers reached out a helping hand in our darkest moments and showed us that even in the midst of war, there was still goodness and kindness to be found.

My family’s last experience of joy

My little brother Kareem’s birthday, Oct. 6, has always been a day of celebration in our family. We would come together to make him feel special and loved. This past year, we had a small gathering at our house with close family and friends. Even though the decorations were up, the cake was ready, and the presents were wrapped, our hearts were heavy with worry about what the future might hold. In September, Israeli forces had attacked Palestinian worshippers at Bab al-Silsila, one of the main entrances to the Al-Aqsa Mosque compound in occupied East Jerusalem. Several months before that, in May, hundreds of illegal Israeli settlers had forced their way into the Al-Aqsa Mosque complex. Rather than evict the intruders, Israeli police forced worshipers out of the mosque.

We took these as bad signs. Our hearts were heavy with worry about what the future might hold.

As we sat around the dining table, sharing stories and laughter, memories of past Israeli attacks filled our thoughts. We tried to ignore them and focus on the joy of the occasion, but it was impossible to completely push aside the fear that gripped us all.

My family had set up a birthday table with various sweets, drinks, and nuts. The taste of the caramel cake filled me with joy, as did the delicious strawberry-flavored marshmallow balls my brother loves. Everyone was singing and dancing. As Kareem started blowing out the candles, he wished that Israel’s 16-year siege of Gaza would end and that there would be no more war in Gaza.

My brother’s face lit up with excitement as he opened his presents. He thanked each of us with a smile, trying to find some semblance of normalcy in the midst of the painful memories of past wars and the continuing siege of Gaza. Kareem’s birthday party was the last time any of us experienced joy.

I am stuck in my painful memories

One Sunday this past January, months after violence and destruction had become our daily reality, my mother decided it was time for our family to leave — to seek refuge in a foreign land. Even though I don’t want to leave behind everything I have ever known — everything that has made me who I am — I feel like I have no choice. I need to be with my mother to protect her.

But once we looked into what it would cost for our family to leave, we were shocked at the price. Before the war, the cost of coordinating an exit from Gaza to Egypt was only $150 to $400 per person. Now it is $5,000 per person — well beyond our means. My family and I feel trapped in a prison of death from which no one can escape.

As the sun sets over the Gaza Strip, casting a fiery glow over the ruins of my childhood, I know that I can never go back in time. I can never reclaim what was lost, what was destroyed. All I can do is hold onto the memories, the love, the resilience that defined me then and defines me now.

As I stand here, gazing at the sunset, I am not a survivor of war and loss, I am a witness to the enduring spirit of my people. As the waves crash against the shore, I silently pray for peace, justice, and a future where no child ever has to say, “I miss my old life in Gaza.”