On 7 October, I woke up to 330 messages on my WhatsApp.

The first message read: “May she rest in peace.”

I knew something bad had happened. As I delved into the messages, the weight of the news settled in, even here in the UK where I am.

Lost in the sea of notifications, I hastily jumped out of bed, still scrolling through the tweets of those I trust.

Amid the unfolding news, my mind slipped into denial; a fragment of me desperately clung to the hope that this was just a nightmare from which I would awaken, shake my head, and resume my routine.

Sadly, reality proved otherwise.

Immediately, I video-called my mom in Gaza. Her face was drained of color, her voice broke, and her eyes were red, fighting tears. She struggled to articulate her emotions.

“I’m afraid,” was all she could say. “I’m afraid that what happened in 2021 will happen again.”

During the harrowing May 2021 Israeli assault, Gaza City, where my parents reside, bore the brunt of the damage. On May 11, two bombardments struck our home – one at the main gate and another at the northern part.

Windows splintered, doors were violently wrenched from their hinges, and flames surrounded us.

Trapped inside, torn between the impossibility of staying and the peril of leaving, we faced an agonizing dilemma. In Gaza, bunkers, shelters and even basements are nonexistent.

Luckily, the civil defense team arrived within 15 minutes, and the fire was extinguished.

These haunting memories now resurfaced amid the new assault. I tried my best to comfort my mom.

During our call, she hurriedly opened the windows to stop them from shattering under the relentless bombardment, gathered our most crucial documents, and told my dad to buy canned food.

No signal

I endeavored to stay connected with her, but then, on October 27, the Israeli occupation forces targeted the sole telecommunications company in Gaza. From then on, I was greeted by the infamous “no signal” or “Sorry, the number you are trying to dial is not available at this moment.” I plunged me into an abyss of unbearable anxiety.

The last time I had talked to my mom was about a week earlier, when our phone call was abruptly interrupted by heavy bombardment.  I heard my dad shouting “come down” and “hurry up.” Seven hours later, my mom called back. Her voice trembled as she shared the devastating news that the neighbor’s house had been obliterated by an Israeli drone.

With a lump in her throat, she added: “Thirty minutes later, it was completely destroyed, and so was ours. We lost our home.”

Our home was our sanctuary. We had poured our savings into it. We were still paying the mortgage.

That was my parents’ comfort zone and the place where our friends, neighbors and relatives gathered for lunch on Friday afternoons or for coffee on Saturday mornings, while we listened to Fairouz and ate knafeh.

My favorite times, however, were during the winter evenings when my family would light a fire and place a kettle on top of the wood,  with tiny potatoes buried in the glowing embers. Cocooned in her cherished velvet blanket, my grandma would shared tales of her house and vineyard in al-Jiyya – a Palestinian village that was depopulated and then occupied in 1948, located just 19 kilometers northeast of Gaza. She recounted how she toiled in the field to provide for her family while tending to the house and her children. My grandpa playfully teased her, saying, “This is why I married you in the first place, a strong, independent woman.”

Each time she shared these memories, an emotional wave washed over us, as if we were hearing the story anew.

No home

Now early in their early 80s, my grandparents now find themselves facing a new Nakba.

Meanwhile, my 26-year-old sister Noor and her husband are now homeless. They were married just two years ago, and excitedly began building a home in al-Karama Square, nestled in the north of the Gaza Strip. They poured love into every detail, from each stroke of paint to the living room furniture. We helped them deliberate over the perfect curtain color for her baby boy’s room. To her, it was more than just a home; she called it a nest, a sanctuary where dreams would unfold.

But as the bombardment intensified, she decided to join my family in a flat in Hamad City to the south of the Gaza Strip, an area the Israeli military said was “safe.”

Then, on October 17, she received a photo of her devastated flat from one of her neighbors. When she called me with the news, her voice choked in despair.

“My nest is gone, and my small family lost everything.”

Their loss extended beyond just their house; her husband’s nearby office was also gone.

Then it happened again. On December 2, they received a call from the Israeli occupation forces, giving them a mere 30 minutes to flee the towers in Hamad City. My sister sought sanctuary with her husband’s family in the Zawayda area, where their two-story house now hosts 60 individuals, 30 of whom are children.

Meanwhile, my parents sought fled to my grandma’s flat, now hosting 24 people, among them 12 children. Yet, even that proved temporary after the Israeli bombardment reached the houses around them. They’ve now evacuated to a tent in the desolate al-Mawasi area in the south.

My family, alongside other families in the area, now struggles to access essential resources such as food, clean water and toilets.

On December 17, around 9 p.m., my mom told me they had not even had breakfast yet. My sister’s son had been admitted to the hospital for an illness exacerbated by the scarcity of milk and other nutrients.

Every call I get now brings more of the same news. I both long for their calls and dread them.

This story is co-published with Electronic Intifada.