Sitting on our brown sofa, my family and I must make a decision now whether to leave our home and evacuate to the south, or stay and face death, which has become a daily encounter.

No one eats Friday’s lunch, which in normal times was a beautiful family gathering at the end of the week and has now turned into a cold silence. Our faces mirror each other and we avoid letting our eyes meet, so that we do not see the confusion and fear inside each of us.

“What do you think? Stay or leave?” my father asks, sweating and taking off his glasses.

“What about voting?” my mother suggests, trying to cover up the tension in the atmosphere. The sound of exploding fire belts — massive Israeli strikes that level whole blocks — interrupts her. We all hurry to vote for leaving, for fear of losing each other.

Our dilemma: Death is everywhere

We rush to pack our most important things, thinking that it will be just for two days and then we’ll return. What to take with me? I must choose the most precious items and the fewest number, because I will not be able to carry much. But all my things are dear to me and all of them are important. I choose my laptop, two pieces of clothing, and my mobile with its charger.

Ten people in one car: my parents, my aunt, my brother, my four sisters, my nephew, and me, ranging in age from three months to 81 years, with all of our displacement bags.

As we drive away, the neighbors look at us reproachfully. Their faces ask, “Why are you leaving? Let’s all stay.” I wish we had believed their looks that day.

Down the road, one of our neighbors yells at us, “Come back! Don’t go there! The road is not safe!” The wheels of the car stop like feet, trembling, scared to walk.

“What happened?” my father asks.

“Israel bombed a truck on the street heading to the south! Most of them are martyrs and the others are injured,” our neighbor replies.

My dad turns the steering wheel to head back home. Our neighborhood is dangerous and the south is dangerous and the streets between them are dangerous. Where can we go? As civilians, where can we go?

Two days become 200

Frustrated, we re-enter our house. Is this the right thing to do?

The aerial, sea, and land bombardment does not stop that night. Death is even closer to us. Lucky us, we survive! We get up in the morning and in these first weeks of the aggression, we have the luxury of sharing breakfast together for a few precious hours. Then, Israel gives the Gazans in our area until 2 p.m. to leave for the south.

We rush to take the important things again, but this time I forget my laptop. What have I left behind in this one device? All of my university documents, lectures by my professor, Dr. Refaat Al Areer, who was assassinated in this aggression, and the tools to launch my freelance translation career.

The same 10 people in one car are heading to the south. Will our car be the one that loses this lottery of death played by the soldiers? Or will luck be with us and will we still be alive?

The chaotic indecision in my head ends as the sun sets, replaced with the dreadful sound of silence. A burned truck with three bombed cars are in a queue, like the flour queues, along our route. How many other people were planning to evacuate but were bombed on their way? What about the driver and his family? Are all of them dead?

We reach our destination after driving 15 kilometers and find my cousin’s house. Many other Gazans were forced to walk 15 kilometers or more because they did not have enough fuel for their cars. I tell myself: “Two days and we will return to our home, just two days and then we will be back.”

It’s now been more than 200 days in our cousin’s house. Thirty of us live together, wondering about our fate.

Dreams deferred

I am 22 years old, in my senior year at university, studying English literature and translation. I am supposed to be preparing for my graduation party and planning my career. Now, I don’t even have my laptop to study. Instead, I write on my mobile. Israel destroyed my university and my graduation year.

What shall I do? Where shall I study for my last year? How will I pass exams with no internet? Will Israel compensate me for the lost university year? Can it give me back my time and my life? Will it dye the white hairs that have appeared on my head from thinking about the future and the constant fear?

After the short truce in November, we see the brutality of Israel and realize that nothing will stop the massacres in our land. My family starts to think about leaving Gaza so that my sister and I can complete our studies. But where can we get $35,000 for the “coordination fees” we must pay for our family to cross the Rafah barrier? Is this the price of our lives in the eyes of the world?

If we leave, how will we live? Can my father practice medicine? Can my mother teach chemistry? Where will we ever feel at home?

How can I leave the sea with cement chairs on its shore bearing the names of the cities of Palestine on their backs? How will I live without walking the market and the streets at night, breathing the air filled with the scent of figs and grapes?

Which country will I choose from the map and which one will allow me to come and continue my studies? How long will it host me? Or will my cousin continue to host me? For how long? Until this war is over? Until we die?

Damn, it never ends!