It was nighttime when suddenly someone knocked on the door. A young man told us to hurry and leave because our house was about to be bombed.

The first thing I thought of was Layla, my little cat. I quickly went to look for her. My whole family was standing by the door ready to flee, and my mom was screaming and calling for me.

All I could think about was the terrible way Layla might die under the rubble. I couldn’t bear it and, even if it meant my death, I wouldn’t leave her. I understood that my mom was afraid for my life, but I knew I had to find Layla. She is my heart.

I found her hiding under the couch looking fearful. I grabbed her and immediately left the house.

Having survived multiple previous attacks, I already had a bag packed ready to go. Ironically though, when the warning came, I forgot the bag as I was only focused on surviving with my beloved family and dear cat.

We escaped to my aunt’s house, which was only two blocks away. The next morning we went to my mom’s father’s house and discovered that the house next to ours had been bombed but our apartment, though damaged, still stood. My siblings, mom, and I decided to stay at my grandpa’s house because we felt solidarity with our cousins who are our generation and life-long friends. There we coped better, as our childish jokes and family gatherings gave us momentary relief from the war. Yet any time we managed to ignore the war, the loud hovering warplanes kept us in a constant state of alert and anxiety, reminding us that sudden bombardments could strike at any time.

One morning a month into the war, I woke up and found my cousin awake next to me. She said, “Lamar, I feel like having fried eggs and potatoes for breakfast,” and she was excited. She got up to make them, when suddenly bombs struck very close to us.

We all went downstairs, heading to the street, frightened that our grandparents’ building would be bombed. My cousin was crying, so I tried to comfort her. I asked her, “What about the eggs and potatoes we were going to have for breakfast?” She told me she would never eat them again. We both laughed. That day we all skipped breakfast. The close call with death left us with no appetite.

In these dark times, I try to appear strong and unafraid, but inside I am terrified, not of dying, but of waking up to find someone in my family gone.

While at our grandparents’ home, my mom sat down with me and asked, “When will you go back to studying?” I replied, “Study what?” She reminded me, “You are in your final year of high school.” For a moment, I had forgotten. The dreams I had before the war, the notes I wrote about the start of my senior year, my excitement about getting my diploma and making my family happy, were gone. As long as there’s an occupation, I know that there will always be enormous obstacles in my life.

So many are gone

Like everyone in Gaza, I have suffered the loss of people I love and cherish. Their memories live in my heart. I met my friend Reem four years ago when I had just moved to a new school. I was afraid because I didn’t know anyone in the class. That first day Reem reached out to me with kindness and friendship, making me feel included. Over time, our friendship grew deeper, as we shared our secrets and insecurities and laughed and cried together. When Reem was killed in a bomb attack, I was shattered. I carry her smile with me and mourn the loss of her sweet, joyful presence in this world.

My favorite teacher Hadeel was also brutally killed in a bombing. She brought fun and joy to the study of physics and cared so much about her students. Each week I would look at my schedule, excited to see when I had her class. Now I mourn her loss. So many are gone. I cannot imagine the heartbreak of returning to school and looking into my friends’ eyes, knowing that each of us has lost something precious, and everyone has lost their innocence. We have had to become tougher to live in a world with so much horror and loss.

My soul is still in Gaza

I used to think that when I left Gaza, my misery would end. But unfortunately, this turned out to be wrong. On March 3, 2024, I left my home in Rafah in Southern Gaza to go to Egypt, and my life has been far from normal. Whenever I hear planes hovering in the sky, I freeze. I feel like I am still in Gaza, still under attack, and at any moment I can be killed.

It has been hard to cope. I have lost interest in everything. My steps are sluggish, and I feel drained of energy and burned out. You might think those who escaped Gaza survived, but, in fact, we only survived in a body without a soul. My soul is still in Gaza, in my home, and with my extended family, and my friends. I recently learned my house was bombed and destroyed—my bed, the couch, and my memories — all gone.

I am lucky that I escaped to Egypt before Israeli forces closed the border crossing. I am almost 18 and live in Cairo with my mother, my 19-year-old brother, Yousof, and my dear cat, Layla. My family of seven is spread out across four countries. My eldest sister, Rawan, just graduated from law school in Algeria. My 23-year-old sister, Shahd, and my 22-year brother, Saleh, have gone to the U.S. to continue their university educations — Shahd in New York and Saleh in Ohio. My father, sadly, remains in Gaza and cannot leave. My biggest hope is that one day we will all reunite and live together. It is so hard living away from my dad and my people in Gaza.

Everything has changed, especially my thoughts about the future. By now I should have graduated from high school but, unfortunately, my education has been on pause since the Israeli attacks. Yousof and I are trying to enroll in the new Tawjihi year (i.e., the school year leading up to the Tawjihi general matriculation exams) while we’re in Cairo, but this is very difficult to arrange. I have decided to become an international human rights lawyer, like my sister Rawan. The Gazan people have long-suffered from extreme human rights violations — we are the victims of oppression, apartheid, and now genocide at the hands of the Israeli government. I want to become a smart lawyer who can fight for the rights of my people.

Our humanity is our power

Through everything I’ve suffered, I still have my humanity. My responsibility to love and care for others keeps me focused on what matters most.

I cannot fathom that as yet there has been no ceasefire and that the world stands by and lets this happen. I am full of sadness and deep questions. I want to ask an Israeli soldier, “How can you live with yourself with all of the souls you have killed?”

How many of us must die to prove that we deserve to live? How many children must live in hunger, disease, and constant fear of losing loved ones before the world steps in to stop this war?  How many more days, months, and years will my people live in this horror? Will the pain ever stop?

Even though the pain is overwhelming, I believe we should have our humanity — love, faith, and care for each other. This is who we are as humans, this is our power.