Yousef’s grandfather before his accident, pictured with his work colleague in the Occupied Territories in the 1970s. Photo from a family album

I remember when I used to wait for the right moment to pester my grandfather with questions about his home in Jaffa. I was always curious about the pre-Nakba Palestine of the past, before our homeland was taken over by occupiers and intruders.

Yusuf Alnono, my grandfather, was born in Jaffa in 1942. Some 40 years later, while he was working in construction in the territories occupied by Israel, he fell from the fifth floor of a building. The accident left him paralyzed and unable to stand, walk, or support his family.

“Grandpa, say I told you that we were going to Jaffa right now; would you recognize the house?”

He replied, “You think I could ever forget my childhood home there?”

“Tell me a little about Jaffa, Grandpa.”

I was afraid to ask because my father, Alaa Alnono, his eldest son, always warned me not to make my grandfather sad. Grandpa looked back at me and let out a deep sigh.

Yousef’s grandfather (far left) with his friends in one of Jaffa’s parks. Photo from a family album

“Our house was in the Jaffa neighborhood of Ajami,” he said. “This was one of the most beautiful neighborhoods in Jaffa, with narrow alleyways and tightly packed clusters of homes leading to the beach. Our house was two stories high and made of beautiful white limestone. Behind the house, our backyard overlooked the beach. Out back was a stunning orange tree. All the neighborhood children used to gather to play beneath the tree and to climb it. I’ll never forget the sweet memories of the scent of oranges mixed with the sea breeze.”

“Don’t worry, Grandpa,” I told him, “We’ll go buy some oranges right now and eat them on the beach.”

“It will never be the same,” he replied.

Fleeing Jaffa

I paused, then asked, wondering, “Grandpa, why did you flee Jaffa?”

“We could hear gangs of settlers massacring people throughout the area and the sound of running feet. We refused to leave our homes at first, but as the gunfire, bullets, and explosions drew near, we thought we should flee to safety. Naively we thought we’d be gone for only a brief time. We just took our clothes off the clothesline in the backyard, and hid our money in a small box inside the chicken coop.”

Yousef’s grandfather in 2002. Photo: Suhaila Alnono

I asked him in astonishment, “Only your clothes? Why did you do that?”

He said, “We thought it would only be for a few days. We fled inland to Lydda. The road was difficult. We walked for many miles. The streets were full of people displaced from their homes. We couldn’t bear it anymore. The Zionist gangs continued to massacre our people. We were forced to move on again, to Ramla. We had nothing. We were barely able to make ends meet.” 

My grandfather’s expression suddenly changed. He looked heartbroken, as if he were about to cry.

“We were some of the most important merchants in Jaffa,” he said. “When we eventually reached Gaza, we were depleted but still we hoped to return to Jaffa.”

“Every time I went to work in the 1948 Occupied Territories,” he continued, “I tried to go back to the my neighborhood in Jaffa and take a look at my house from afar. I wasn’t even able to tend to my garden or visit it directly. I found out that the house was falling apart, and someone had put an X on it. My childhood home had been converted by the occupiers into a car wash and a garage. Knowing this almost drove me crazy, and I started crying.”

I truly thought that nothing could be more painful for my grandfather than leaving Jaffa. Then October 2023 came into our lives.

History repeats itself

On October 10, 2023, the third day of the war, my friend Abdullah Nasrallah called me and told me that Gaza’s Al-Rimal neighborhood was under heavy bombing and the occupation was preparing to evacuate. Al-Rimal was where my grandparents were now living.

I couldn’t tune in to the news because the internet in our own Al-Nasser neighborhood had been cut off. I told Abdullah that they were only trying to scare us and wouldn’t do anything. But this was the first evacuation order in the war.

When I told my father, he and I set out for my grandparents’ neighborhood. We quickly discovered that Al-Rimal had indeed been under bombardment and was being evacuated. On the way, my father called my grandmother to ask her to gather together any important documents and my grandfather’s essential medical supplies.  

My grandmother, Suhaila Alnono, was startled by the news of the anticipated evacuation. My father tried to calm her. “We’re almost there,” he said.

Since my grandfather’s accident he has been confined to a wheelchair. My grandparents’ house was on the second floor so in order to leave the house, two people have to carry him downstairs in his wheelchair. When I was younger I wasn’t allowed to help my father or Uncle Mohammed, my father’s brother. Now, as I told my father on our way to Al-Rimal, I was grown and strong. I could help, I could carry my grandfather. My father nodded in agreement and told me to hurry.

Once we arrived, we saw how frightened my grandparents were. My grandmother was gathering up their bags, while my grandfather lay on his bed, unable to move or do anything by himself.

My uncle arrived a few minutes later and together we carried my grandfather down the stairs. I was at the front, and my uncle was at the back. I said to myself, “I have to be strong at this moment. There is no time for any mistakes.”

We could hear the sound of planes and drones overhead. The neighborhood was empty except for the echo of our own voices.

Once we had carried my grandfather downstairs, I quickly pushed him along the street in his wheelchair, with my grandmother following.

My father directed us to our home in the Al-Nasser neighborhood while he and my uncle rushed back upstairs to recover the rest of my grandparents’ things. I was scared. I kept looking back, wishing they would hurry up. Time was running out.

We waited at a distance. There was no one else in the street.

Just a few minutes later my father and uncle reached us. And only minutes after that the entire neighborhood was covered by a blinding light in the distance. It seemed as though the sun had risen. Then explosions shook the entire area and everything turned upside-down.

My grandfather suddenly said, “This is the second time I am experiencing the Nakba. Fleeing with nothing twice.”

I was shocked. The echo of his sentence seemed louder than the shelling.

Before and after: the view from Yousef’s bedroom window on October 10, 2023, and five months later, in March 2024, when he returned to his neighborhood in Al-Nasser. Photo: Yousef Alaa

My father had been the last person to leave Al-Rimal before it was bombed. Later my grandmother asked him whether their home had survived the attack. My father had to tell her that the entire neighborhood had been wiped out. 

A second catastrophe

We were exhausted when we finally reached our home in Gaza around 10 p.m. There was no transportation available. The trip had taken hours. I was barely able to stand.

We thought we would get some rest but the shelling was endless that night. We barely slept. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. I looked out of my window. It was foggy from the bombardment. 

In the morning, the shocking news came: The occupation army had ordered people to flee south. Our neighborhood began to empty as families fled the area, desperate to escape being killed.

I found my father alone in his room, listening to the news on the radio. It was the first time I had seen him so worried. He said that our area was no longer safe. The Al-Nasser neighborhood was empty. He told me to pack our bags, just in case we had to leave.

A week later, we fled under fire. I couldn’t believe how fast this was happening. As we ran from our home, all I could think about were the echoes of my grandfather’s experience in 1948.

My mother reminds me that this was the first of our 13 displacements in just two years. I told her that I had stopped counting. The situation has become unbearable. The world watches in silence.

This was a second catastrophe but much worse than the first. My grandmother, like my grandfather, agrees that this war—this second, modern Nakba—is a disaster far worse than the first.