April Fools’ Day is an annual custom in western society, consisting of practical jokes and hoaxes intended to make the victim accept something unbelievable as true. Jokesters often expose their actions by shouting “April Fools!”

Here in Gaza, April is over, but no one yet has shouted “April Fools!” But deep in my heart, I wish that all that we’re going through was a hoax, a nightmare that we will wake up from someday.

At the beginning of the aggression on Gaza, we assumed that our area (Al Nuseirat camp) was a safe place compared to northern Gaza, which Israeli soldiers occupied. However, as soon as the new year 2024 began, when we were supposed to be looking forward with optimism, our status changed overnight. The Israeli tanks penetrated our region and began firing their artillery shells throughout the day.

I still remember very well my last night at home before the displacement. While I was trying hard to fall asleep amidst the shattering sounds of continuous bombing, an artillery shell was dropped on our neighbors’ house. It was so loud and terrifying; glass scattered all around me; the door of my balcony was uprooted and flew out of its place. For a moment I thought my home was the one targeted, but when my family came in panic to check on me, I realized that it wasn’t. The windows were blown out of the walls and one of them fell on my brother’s back. He was injured, but thank God it wasn’t serious.

Our neighbor’s house was full of people, all buried under the rubble, screaming, weeping loudly, and begging for help. It was 3 a.m., so the ambulance took a while to arrive, and they didn’t have enough equipment to get people out of the rubble. Many were martyred instantly and others died waiting for help. The damage reached other nearby houses, too. Our neighbors on the other side were injured and ran through the street covered with blood, holding their children in their arms, trying to save them before it was too late.

My 10-year-old sister ran into my arms, crying. She sat on my lap hugging her teddy bear, while I covered her ears, desperately trying to distract her from the genocide that was happening outside, although I myself needed someone to distract me. The night seemed as if it would never end. We spent the rest of it gathered together –– me, my parents, and both my brothers in my little sister’s room, debating whether to evacuate or stay.

As soon as day dawned, we began packing our bags. There wasn’t enough time to pack all we needed, so each one of us prepared a list of our essentials. This was my innocent little sister’s list:

• My painting notebooks
• Enola (her little turtle)
• My yellow dress
• My teddy bear

I was sorry that we couldn’t bring all her toys and nice dresses, but the shells were still falling and we could feel the house shaking.

My mother was running back and forth, getting food and water from the kitchen, and then returning to their room to pack a few clothes for herself and my father. My dad was looking for any possible way to secure the house because, despite the terrible situation, thieves are thieves.

My brother took his school books with him, afraid he would lose them if they were left behind. (That was when there was still a little hope of the survival of education in Gaza.)

But when it came to me, I was looking in every corner of my lovely room, trying to figure out some magical way to make my bag hold every detail of my life: my new dresses that I had recently bought to wear at college before the war came and destroyed the whole university; my diary, the best secret keeper I have ever had, which holds all my memories inside, though now I couldn’t think of good ones… all I could see was gloomy blackness. Would I ever sleep in my bed again? Would I feel at home ever again or was this my last time? Our bodies were leaving the house, but our souls and hearts remained there.

My parents were comforting us, trying to hide their own pain, but I saw that tear on my mom’s cheek, the anger in my dad’s eyes. I heard the weeping of our neighbors, running in the streets that smelled of smoke and gunpowder, holding a few bags — the exhaustion, fear, anxiety etched into their faces, having no idea where to go or what to do!

The journey by car wasn’t easy; we were terrified by the shells that were being dropped randomly. I repeated verses from the Holy Qur’an to comfort myself while watching the massive destruction that was hitting my town. It was my first time outside since Oct. 7.

Our destination was my auntie’s house in Rafah. My other four aunties and their husbands and kids were already there, having fled the genocide in northern Gaza. Each family took a room. The house wasn’t big enough, but we adapted somehow. It’s such a hurtful feeling to be a burden in someone else’s house, even if it is one of your relatives, but also a blessing to find a refuge amidst the huge concentration of people flooding into southern Gaza.

We women had to wear the hijab all day long, because some men were there, too — I got so used to wearing it that I once forgot to take it off and slept in it, which was funny.

We were all sharing a single bathroom, but the water came only once every ten days or so. Over time, we became accustomed to filling buckets, other vessels, and even cooking pots with water. Each one of us could have one shower a week, a luxury, when people living in the refugee tents have nothing; it’s all right for the men who can go to the sea to bathe, but what can the women do?

We stopped changing our clothes so frequently, to save water and my mom’s energy, because due to the power outages we couldn’t use the washing machine. We could barely find enough food, and when we did, we couldn’t afford it. Prices had more than doubled: 25 kilos of flour was supposed to cost 60 shekels, but it was being sold for 200.

Even the food stamps that are supposed to be distributed for free, were being offered for sale in the markets. We faced other obstacles, too. We ran out of gas, so my little cousins woke up early every morning to collect firewood, cartons, and plastic bottles from the streets to make a fire to cook over.

After several months, we were finally able to return home when the enemy announced the end of its military operations in our region. This doesn’t mean that we’re safe now from sudden raids and the shells that I still hear, but being home is enough for me.

On my first day back, I had mixed feelings. I was happy to see my home, my room and its walls again, but in my heart was great pain and sorrow for the other displaced people who aren’t able to taste this joy yet — people like my aunties, who are still in the south, craving their return home.