My home was filled with light and love. Photo: Rula Hamdouna

On the morning of March 26, 2025, the Israeli occupation army called my mother, directing us to evacuate our home in West Gaza City. We had only recently returned, but now our area had been classified as a red zone—marked on the maps published by the occupying army as targeted for an air strike. We had to evacuate immediately.

We began to live in a constant state of anticipation; fear had become an inseparable part of our day. Still, we knew the decision was inevitable—we had no choice but to leave. This time we headed to the Sheikh Radwan area, about 6 kilometers away. We knew no one there, but it was the safest place to go at that moment.

My parents, my four brothers, and I safely arrived in Sheikh Radwan. Then the real challenge began. Where would we sleep? We left our belongings on the street while we each set out in different directions searching for shelter. My mother rushed from one place to another nearby, her eyes full of fear and worry. My father tried to remain calm in the chaos.

Our every attempt to find shelter led to nothing. My mother’s eyes betrayed her despair as she said, “How will we spend the night in the street? Where will we go in the middle of this danger?”

A man in his fifties appeared. He seemed kindly at first. He approached us, saying in a calm voice, “Oh my God, here you are in the street? How can you stay here?”

His words felt like we were in a different world, as if we weren’t all in the middle of unimaginable suffering.

My father said, “Yes, we’re looking for a place to sleep.” The man replied with a smile tinged with sarcasm: “Do you want a house or are you looking for a ticket to another country? Because here, my friends, all we have are homes that take you to another world … a world of poverty and surprises!”

We didn’t quite understand what he meant, but he quickly made us an offer. “I have an old house you can rent. It might be a little expensive, but who knows? It might be better than sleeping in the street.”

There was something mocking about the way he spoke. His features carried a hint of malice that we hadn’t noticed at first. But we had no choice. My father quickly agreed, thinking that this house would be a lifeline for us, even though none of us knew what awaited us.

When we arrived at the house, we found a nightmare. The walls were dripping with damp. Any sunlight that might have offered us a ray of hope, couldn’t find its way in. Insects filled the place, and cockroaches roamed freely on the floor. The atmosphere was suffocating, and any attempt to breathe felt like entering a new world of torment. There was no phone signal; I felt as if I would now be living in another era, far from everything.

Our displacement “palace.” Photo: Rula Hamdouna

That moment was harsher than all the waiting on the streets. Yes, even with the cold pavement and the loneliness of the night, there had still been a glimmer of hope, a thin thread I held on to despite everything. But when we entered that rented house we had struggled to pay for, and the foul smell of damp crept into my nose, I realized there was no hope there.

The feeling was suffocating. Every time I tried to breathe, I choked. The air wasn’’t clean, and the roof provided little shelter. All I could see was cracked walls. All I could hear was the chatter of insects. The idea that I would sleep amidst this ruin made me shudder.

But what shocked us even more was the rental amount: “$1,000 a month,” the man said with a wide, sarcastic smile. Before the war, rents ranged from $150 to $250 per month.

You know,” he continued, “now a simple meal costs about $35, so compared to the rising prices, this rent isn’t much at all. Isn’t that the price of comfort?”

We froze where we stood. The shock was too great to bear. My father looked at my mother hopelessly, as if they shared the same thought: How could this be possible?

My mother asked sorrowfully, “A thousand dollars? Has genocide made you this selfish? Are we looking for a house or a royal palace?”

But the man paid no attention to my mother’s words. Apparently, genocide had not only made him selfish but had also frozen his conscience.

My father replied, trying to hide his worry. “It seems only princes can live here. And we … we’re just guests in this so-called palace.”

We knew we were being exploited but we had no choice. My father went from friend to friend, asking for help, even though his heart was bleeding. After persistent attempts with several different friends, he managed to gather the money we needed and regretfully paid our new landlord. We watched silently, not knowing how we would face the coming days—living in this horrible house and not having enough money to buy food.

That night was the hardest of my life. I cried so much and my tears slept on my cheek before I did. Everything around us screamed of misery and despair. Despite the bitterness of our situation, I found myself searching for any small hope that could make me forget this reality, anything that might fill me with vitality again.

I pleaded with God with all the weakness in my heart to take me in a dream to somewhere else … and He answered.

I saw myself as a small child again, pampered in my mother’s arms, being taken to the market to buy the most beautiful clothes and gifts. They were short moments, but warm ones, full of safety.

I woke up with tears pouring down my face, not just mourning the past, but crying because the present was too harsh to bear. To live a life you were never used to, to be stripped of the simplest elements of dignity—that is a suffering whose depth cannot be told but only felt and hidden.

From that night on, I began learning a lesson I will never forget: The blessings I had lived with up until then, had seemed ordinary to me. I now understand that they came with no guarantees. I vowed to remember to thank God for everything I have, for life may suddenly take away what you always thought was yours.

Alhamdulillah—a word that should accompany us all at all times.