My little bag on the first day of the battle, when we were temporarily relocated. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

When my father returned from a trip to Egypt with a little pink, white, and beige fabric bag for me, I never dreamed that I would have to pack my entire world into it and leave everything I knew behind.

In the crazed panic of October 7, 2023, the shells crashed around us in northern Gaza, forcing us from our home — it was no longer safe for us to stay in Al-Amoudi.

We had less than 20 minutes to leave our home. As my family rushed around me, packing their own bags, I was devastated that war had arrived on our doorstep again. Standing on the brink of forgetting something important, I had to decide what to keep with me and what I could leave behind. As I touched every item, I asked myself whether I really needed it. If I didn’t, I left it. I was brutal because there was no other way.

I pushed materially insignificant items into that little pink, white, and beige fabric bag. They carried a greater weight than my heart: a treasured book, “Peace Be Upon You, My Friend,” about balancing joy and sorrow to stay positive in difficult circumstances; a photo of my siblings and me when we were children during Eid Al-Fitr that my mother had hung in the living room; all my certificates — my university degree, high school diploma, and English language course certificates from AMIDEAST, as well as Turkish language-learning certificates. These were the credentials I had worked so hard to obtain — the culmination of the many long, difficult years I had focused on creating a wonderful, bright future for myself. The documents represented my hopes and dreams and all I had aimed for in my life.

The trees in the garden were waving, the house seemed to be bidding me farewell. Photo: Nada Abdel Karim Hamdona

My little bag was packed and hanging at my side. I glanced about our cozy two-story villa. It had always been a haven of warmth and security. The fire pit in the garden was now extinguished, the trees in the garden were waving. The house seemed to be bidding me farewell. My pink and white bedroom walls, which had seen my candlelit study sessions and nurtured my dreams, now bore testimony to my suffering. I left a piece of my soul in the room, locked my memories inside, and left.

Left behind, next to my bed, which was still covered with the snug blanket, was the fine Turkish gold bracelet given to me by my late-grandmother on my university graduation day. I felt a peculiar mix of remorse and rage at myself as we took refuge at my cousin’s safer house in Al-Nasser: How could I overlook the present from my grandmother? She had died just a month before the war, and that bracelet carried the warmth of her hands and her affection for me.

Sitting in a corner of the room, I reprimanded myself in silence. I realized this is what fear does. It forces us to forget the values and memories we hold dear and to cling to what appears to be rational. Is a country truly nothing more than a picture, a book, and some paperwork?

There was a deeper sense of detachment with my own country. It went beyond simply leaving the house to drone attacks and bombs. I wandered through the streets I used to know so well but they didn’t remember me. The ruined houses, the charred trees, the well-known faces had all disappeared into the throng of suffering. Even the sky I used to look up at while I dreamed was crowded with jets and the echoes of shells.

My home and garden are now just rubble. We have no home or private space to start over.

Just as during those early moments of terror and flight, I still store my few possessions in that little bag. Holding my memories, my passport, my ID, and the meagre items I once believed would be a part of a secure life, that bag has become a part of me. It has become my home, my private space, my future, my life.

Life is constantly changing. I now feel alienated in areas that were once familiar. I collect pieces of my hometown, a life now reduced to debris that evokes the past, hoping to keep its memory alive. My little bag stays by my side, expanding to hold the memories as little tokens. It holds everything for me. It’s my closet, a place to keep my belongings. It carries everyday things and holds precious memories. It contains the country I loved. It contains the strength I’ve acquired.

It’s possible I won’t get back all I lost, but my little bag will always serve as a reminder of what I’ve survived. It reassures me that, even when we have to leave everything else behind, our country is not just a place where we reside but also a repository of all the emotions and sentiments we hold close to our hearts.