The Qaysariya Market, Gaza’s historic gold market. Photo: Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed

My father was born in Iraq after my grandfather was forced in 1948 to leave his village, Al-Masmiyya al-Kabira, on the southern coastal plain of the Gaza District. Though he had never seen his homeland, he would carry its memory from stories his parents told him. 

The family moved to Iraq, and there they enjoyed many years of stability and happiness, despite being separated from extended family members who remained in Gaza. 

My father discovered the world of goldsmithing in 1975, where he honed his skills in the gold market of Baghdad. Craftsmen worked side by side in narrow alleys filled with life and skill, where shopfronts glimmered with the shine of gold and silver under the lights, and the displays were crowded with the warm colors of handcrafted jewelry.

The scents of Arabic coffee and tea drifting from nearby shops blended with the smell of polished metal and the lingering aroma of the old markets, giving the place a unique and unforgettable character. The friendships he formed with his fellow craftsmen were deep and brotherly, built on trust, affection and the sharing of experience. 

Fond of drawing since he knew how to hold a pen, he saw gold the way an artist sees a canvas.  It was a material capable of being molded and transformed. His drawing talent not only earned him a place in an art exhibit in 1988 but accelerated his learning curve faster and more fluidly than many around him. Goldsmithing is not merely a technical skill; it requires an artist’s eye and sharpness of impulse as the flame caresses the metal under the precision of its manipulator.

Everything changed when Iraq came under a harsh international blockade in 1990. As food, medicine and basic necessities became increasingly scarce, daily life grew more difficult. After years of hardship, the family made the painful decision to sell their home and leave behind the life they had built. They returned to Gaza, not because it promised an easier future, but because they hoped to rebuild their lives among family and regain a sense of belonging after years of exile.

The gold market after its destruction during the war. Photo: Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed

My father began to reconstruct his life from the ground up. Despite his great skill, entering the job market was not easy. In Gaza, goldsmithing was a closed trade, passed down from father to son. He found an entry point when one craftsman welcomed him into his workshop and helped him build his reputation. Before long, the community began to recognize the talent of this “outsider” who had brought his expertise and creativity to them from Iraq.

In time, he came to be known in the gold market as “the Iraqi.” Traders began to bring him raw gold to transform into modern and innovative jewelry designs. He turned each into a masterpiece, adding his own artistic flair to anything that passed through his hands. Despite his success, my father remained a humble man impassioned by the gold’s brilliance and beauty.

By 2002, my father was at the peak of his career and opened his first independent workshop. A small picture of me sat above his workbench in his atelier, stained by the escaping chemicals and welding me into his vision. He would tell me that his gaze would rest on my picture every time he raised his head from the sparks of his soldering. I would become a reprieve from the molten gold pouring into his molds, the demanding soldering iron and fine plyers he could expertly wield to grasp tiny pieces of gold. 

I grew within that space. Once I was old enough to accompany him, I would sit at the edge of the table, awed by his calm and focus that allowed him to chat and smile at me while his weathered hands toiled on.

I began to understand why goldsmithing was art before it was a profession. I watched him turn a small piece of metal into quaint bracelets for newborns. The secret was not in the gold, but in the patience and love he placed into every piece he created.

In 2005, he traveled to Türkiye to purchase a casting machine, a defining step to enhance and improve his skill. Then, in 2012, the greatest transformation in his career took place: he moved out of his small workshop, no bigger than a storage space, to a large factory consisting of three spacious warehouses. 

My father allowed me to carry his precious gold and tools though I was only 11 years old. I had become an eager apprentice. One day, in his atelier amidst the sound of sparks shooting from his soldering iron, he confided in me: “In the gold market, sons are usually taught the craft, but you are my eldest child and I always wished to teach you instead. Art has no gender; what matters is talent and effort.”

The factory grew into one of the most renowned gold workshops in Gaza, located beneath the residential building where we lived. It had ceased to be just a workshop and transformed into a hub for goldsmiths. Many would visit my father seeking his guidance on complex designs and manufacturing techniques. 

In 2023, Gaza was thrust into a violent war. My father had to once again decide whether he should move to save our lives or stay and try to save the factory. The memory of fleeing Iraq came rushing back. We were living in Nuseirat, an area where people were instructed to move to a so-called “safe zone.” My father did not hesitate for a moment to open his second apartment to shelter displaced families for free. Part of the factory was offered for young displaced men to sleep in, despite the expensive and unique equipment inside of it.

His message to us was always the same: “I entrust everything to God. He is the Protector.”

On a night of intense bombardment around the Ain Jalout residential towers, we woke to explosions bursting from every direction. The next morning, on Dec. 27, 2023, we left our home and factory while bombs fell around us, carrying only our documents and basic clothing. The furniture and my father’s precious workshop had to be abandoned. 

Our first displacement was to Al-Zawaida neighborhood where we focused on survival. I will never forget Jan. 1, 2024, the day we learned the residential towers had collapsed along with my father’s factory. My father wanted to see it for himself to believe it. He would find a scene of rubble and destruction, but it was only his steadfastness that we saw on his face. “Money goes, but what matters is that you are safe,” he said, to reassure us in our grief.

Gold bars and ingots overseen by my father in Gaza. Photo: Lina Ghassan Abu Zayed

Situations do not make the man, they reveal him. My father had lost everything: his home, his factory, his tools, and the professional life he had built over decades. Yet he remained determined to start anew.

The historic Qaysariyya Market in Gaza, located in the old city next to the Great Omari Mosque, dates back to the Mamluk era. It has long been a central hub for gold and jewelry trade, where people’s stories, celebrations, and memories intersect. Wedding gifts were bought there, heirloom pieces were crafted from ideas and passed on through generations. It was where goldsmiths harmonized precision, craftsmanship, and history. Some gold workshops and factories in Gaza have resumed work in that market despite the ongoing genocide and destruction. 

Although my father is unable to rebuild his factory, which cost nearly half a million dollars to set up, his departure from the craft of goldsmithing was not the end of his journey. His long experience in the field has been shifted into another role.

Today, he no longer works with his hands inside the workshop as he once did; instead, he visits factories, offers expertise and advice, guides workers, and oversees the workflow with the precision of someone who knows its deepest secrets. In a way, he has transformed himself from a goldsmith who shapes gold with his own hands into a mentor who inspires creativity in other craftsmen eager to hone their skills. And thus his impact as a master craftsman continues to make itself felt throughout Gaza’s gold market.

This article is co-published with Washington Report on Middle East Affairs.