On the 7th of October, I was preparing to return home to Gaza. I had just finished a three-month course in physiotherapy in Egypt, coordinated by the Palestinian Ministry of Health in Gaza. I bought gifts to bring back with me and paid the last rent I owed for the house next to my aunt and uncle.

But my return was not to be. That morning, I woke up to the news that Hamas fighters had infiltrated Israel, seizing more than 200 hostages. I was so shocked that I felt like I needed a slap in the face to bring me back to reality. I will be honest, however: I can’t say I was upset by the news. I am against the killing of any innocent civilians. But at the same time, any act of resistance to the Israeli control of every aspect of our lives — from the water we drink to the light (or lack of it) in our homes — gives us a feeling of existence. We are no longer just shadows of people; we are seizing control of our lives.

It was a divine, but momentary feeling. Extreme worry about what would come next almost immediately set in. Even as the brutal Israeli retaliation began, I wanted nothing more than to return to the home in the al-Remal neighborhood of Gaza City I shared with my mom and twin brother Bassem. I couldn’t, however. On the 9th of October, the Rafah entrance to Gaza closed.

During that first week, I was able to contact them daily. They told me that the bombing wasn’t “the usual,” that it was the heaviest of the five assaults on Gaza we’ve experienced since 2008. Soon, it became impossible for my mom and Bassem to stay in our Remal building. We lived on a high floor and there was no electricity to pump water up. Then, the bombardment became heavy and the Israeli military ordered everyone to evacuate neighborhood. They were forced to leave our home to take shelter in Tal Al Hawa, further south in the city, with my eldest brother, his wife and two daughters.

But it wasn’t for long. The Israelis soon ordered all the people of Gaza City to flee to the south. That’s when I truly realized that this was a different kind of war. I knew that something wasn’t quite the same. This time, my mom, Bassem and my brother and his family escaped to the Al Maghazi refugee camp where my sister lived. Fortunately, there was still fuel for the cars at that time. Today, they’d have to walk or ride donkeys.

The hardest times for me is when communication with those in Gaza is totally cut off. You know, one thing that sets us in Gaza apart from a lot of my Western friends is the passion we have for our families. It may seem weird to them that a 35-year-old man lives with his mother, but that is how strong our bond is. In 2019, I travelled alone for the first time to Europe for a We Are Not Numbers book tour, and I called my mom every day. For me, a day without mom’s voice is simply not “right.” It is the same now. During the first day of total blackout, I felt like a hand was penetrating my chest and squeezing my heart. The realization that Israel wanted to kill my people in silence haunted me. I sat in my bed, calling repeatedly. When I finally heard from them, my heart relaxed.

But the killing continued. When Israeli forces killed the family of Wael Al Dahdouh, the bureau chief for Al Jazeera Arabic, I couldn’t hold back my tears, even though I don’t know him personally. But I am a writer, and journalists almost feel like family. Then there was the day I woke up to the news that Mahmoud Alnaouq, a friend from We Are Not Numbers, had been killed along with 19 of his family members. Another one dead is Mohammed Al Jaja, the “fixer” who helped me get to Europe and see the world. Now they are no longer here, and I am so mad at the world.

But perhaps the heaviest blow was the killing of my best friend Essa. We became friends in 2006 and survived college and internship together. We were always late and laughed about it. We did tasha together on the weekends, eating kanafa on Gaza’s beach, playing cards, singing and swimming (well, I tried to swim; Essa laughed at me for being such a loser at it). We were planning to do tasha again when I came back from Egypt. But he’s in heaven now, probably telling the angels one of his jokes. What hurts the most is that I couldn’t say goodbye. I want the last hug I can’t have now. In the future, every time I go late to work to help Gaza rebuild, I will look at the sky, wink at Essa and raise my thumb up.

Now, as I write this, I am watching Israeli forces continue to plunder al Shifa Hospital, an institution I know well from my training as a physiotherapist. I bet if you asked any health care person in Gaza about their favorite place to work or train, the answer would be al Shifa. I spent my university and internship years there, including caring for my first “real” patients, in the orthopedic department. We joked, laughed and loudly debated scientific topics and case studies. We had breakfast and coffee or tea in the kitchen of the outpatient department and sat in the small, green yard during the break hour. Al Shifa was where teachers became my friends and colleges. That Al Shifa is shockingly gone now, but our memories will live as long as we breathe.

Currently, my typical day is to wake up, watch the news, write to save my sanity, watch the news again, and search fearfully for the names of my friends in social media because I am afraid they we die and I won’t know.

We need more than a temporary ceasefire. We need a real ceasefire now. We need the Israelis to leave. We need help rebuilding. We need independence.

And I need to be allowed to return home. While I understand why others want to flee Gaza now more than ever, I long to be back. Outside, it is more comfortable and easier, but I don’t feel at home. I only feel “home” in Gaza.