
Before October of 2023, I lived an almost perfect life filled with achievements and satisfaction. I spent the summer vacation of 2023 training in freelancing with wonderful mentors. After two months of intensive training, I was thrilled to land my first job writing articles on Upwork, a great opportunity to get good reviews and connect with clients worldwide.
I loved spending evenings with my sisters at a café overlooking the stunning Gaza sea, listening to soft music, and having deep conversations about life, achievements, and perspectives. We valued our time together and took pride in our accomplishments.
The summer ended and my final year at university began. I attended the first week with commitment, passion, and excitement, dreaming of the day I would graduate with a degree in English translation from the Faculty of Arts at Al-Azhar University. Graduation day would be a celebration of years of hard work: preparing for lectures, completing assignments, waking up early, and staying up late studying for exams.
I was also preparing to pass the International English Language Testing System (IELTS) exam so that I could secure a scholarship for a master’s degree at a university in Europe.
After classes, I would head straight to the gym. Exercising and lifting weights helped me release the stress and anxiety caused by thoughts about the future. Enjoying a healthy, strong body was a wonderful feeling.
This time, a full-scale war
Suddenly, hell opened its doors to my life, stealing my dreams and destroying my home, heart, soul, and memories. Just two weeks into the university semester, at 6 a.m. on Saturday, October 7, 2023, my family and I were awakened by terrifying explosions that nearly stopped my heart. We turned on the TV to discover that war had erupted without warning.
We thought it would be like the previous aggressions by the occupation, lasting a few days with minimal damage, after which we would return to our normal lives. A week later, we were shocked to hear the occupation announce a full-scale war on all of Gaza. For me, it was a revelation that the previous conflicts I’d experienced since the age of six were not real wars but merely “aggressions” (as described by the occupiers).
The real nightmare began on October 13, with the chilling order for all Gazans in the northern areas to move south temporarily; they declared Gaza City a danger zone. Temporarily! How absurd! In 1948, they told our grandparents to leave their homes temporarily, and they have been waiting for 77 years to return, living in refugee camps, suffering humiliation, poverty, and oppression after losing their land and livelihood. Some died in these camps from heartbreak, having spent their lives clutching the keys to their homes, waiting and hoping to return. I never imagined that like them, I too would be forced to leave my home, terrified that I would never return.
At first, I thought people wouldn’t comply with the evacuation order, but after the occupiers bombed numerous buildings, killing children and women mercilessly, fear took over and people started heading south in what was called a displacement movement.
Displacement and bitter tears
My eyes poured rivers of tears, and my heart trembled as I tried to grasp the reality of leaving my warm, loving home in Tel Al-Hawa — the only home I had ever known! This beautiful area overlooking the Mediterranean Sea was the highest and most elegant in Gaza. To me, it was paradise. I loved the street leading to our apartment, each building with a lovely small garden in front. Many people from outside the area came to take photos on our beautiful, spacious street.
I quickly took pictures of my room before we left, wanting to somehow hide every corner in my heart to protect it from harm and avoid the painful longing that would tear at my soul. I left everything in its place, stubbornly insisting that I would return in a few days and find everything exactly where I left it.

We walked along the coastal road, sitting on the sidewalk to rest and watching exhausted faces heading in the same direction. My mother cried bitterly, wishing this had never happened to us, while my father sat silent, unable to express himself. I feared I would never see the sea again, as we were indeed heading to Sinai. I wished it was all unreal, and I would find myself back home at any moment. We walked for hours to reach a point close to the south of the Gaza Strip, as there were no cars; the occupiers were targeting vehicles and had tightened the siege, preventing fuel from entering Gaza.
From that day and throughout the last ten months of continuous displacement, all I have left are the bittersweet memories of my home.
I keep thinking about my warm room, the posters I made myself, my blue starry bedspread, and my bookshelf. My beautiful room was filled with bright, cheerful colors, the walls were painted shades of purple and blue. My cat always loved curling up on my bed among the colorful toys, and I loved sleeping beside them, too. Beyond my wardrobe and bookshelf, what I cherished most was my vanity, always stocked with all the cosmetics I loved. I was never missing a single thing I needed, but now it is all buried under the rubble.
A spirit-shattering loss
When I think of home, I picture my mother in the kitchen, lovingly preparing lunch. The smell of stuffed grape leaves would fill the house, a scent that always lifted my spirits after a long day at university. My father would sit on the couch, telling jokes or sharing the latest neighborhood news, sometimes accompanied by the hum of the TV or radio. Our voices were always present; we laughed, shouted, cried, and danced. I also loved the sound of the washing machine, playing a tune like a piano when the cycle was finished. I even miss the annoying sound of the vacuum cleaner. On weekend mornings, I woke up to the sound of my parents drinking coffee, listening to the radio, and occasionally arguing. But now my parents are exhausted beyond measure, no longer able to engage in everyday small talk; they are drained to the point of death.
The hope of ever seeing my beloved home again has vanished forever, as we no longer have a home to return to. When I learned it had been bombed, my spirit was shattered and my heart was burned. I truly realized that a home is equivalent to one’s soul; after losing it, I have lost all feelings of safety and warmth. We have become a family without a shelter. It feels as if hell, once it opened its doors, left them opened.
Now I live on the fringes of my memories. I can hardly believe that the life I once lived is now the life I dream of. Sometimes the thought of dying seems like an escape from the relentless suffering and fear, a release into eternal peace. But I try to comfort myself by planning for a brighter future, setting more goals and ambitions, hoping for a miracle to break through the boundaries and escape this devastation or to wake up from this horrific nightmare and reclaim my life and home.
How does a 20-year-old girl, once so full of aspirations, endure ongoing psychological torment, oppression, and fear of death for so long and still keep her dreams alive?