Oct. 12 was one of the worst days I have ever lived, after I witnessed our neighborhood being wiped out.

At such times of year, the curtains at my window, which faces north, were supposed to dance smoothly in the gentle autumn breeze that comes from the west. Instead, they were blowing out as if there was a storm.

As the Israeli warplanes carried out a massive attack on my neighborhood, Tal Al-Hawa, black serpents of smoke and ashes covered the whole scene.

My window, which was my space to enjoy a panoramic picture of my beautiful neighborhood, had become a gateway through which to watch the apocalypse, live.

My heart was quickening as if I were running a marathon. I swear I could hear it even through the insane, heavy bombardment that was hitting every standing building in the neighborhood.

Amal refuses to leave

I always look for my beautiful twin sister, Amal, to calm me down in such situations. With all the massive blasts, she burst into tears. I saw her wrapping her arms around her belly, in the corner of our room. Her tears were as heavy as the Israeli bombardment, that day.

What happened the next day, however, was on a whole other level. When this war had started, we thought that it would be just like the previous ones. It’s safe to say now that this didn’t turn out to be the case.

On Oct. 13, Israel ordered the people of the north to evacuate their houses and move to the south. Hours later, our neighborhood turned into a ghost town.

Amal refused to leave, which led the rest of the family, including me, to decide that if she did not leave, neither would we. Her reluctance stemmed from a deep-rooted fear of being ethnically cleansed from our beloved land in a duplicate scene of what happened to our grandparents in the 1948 Nakba. It’s a relatively old wound but feels like a fresh one as it keeps on bleeding, with the absence of any chance to heal.

The Nakba is a big part of our collective memory as Palestinians. It’s a generational trauma that is passed down to us, the third generation of the Nakba. If we learned something from our history, it is that the colonizers of our land will not let us return once they successfully ethnically cleanse us. This was our greatest fear when we were ordered to evacuate, especially for Amal.

This fear has now become a reality. I, a 21-year-old, will go through the same trauma my ancestors experienced, but in the 21st Century, while the whole world is watching and standing idly by.

Although our area, Tal Al-Hawa, was almost completely deserted, it looked beautiful. Yet, the gentle breeze carried the scent of death and destruction. An overwhelming sense of danger set in, and that was the only feeling we could register after we were robbed of all safety and assurance.

Leaving my safe zone — my books

Compelled to leave — as Amal eventually agreed to do  —  we bid farewell to the minutiae of our home with tears pouring from our eyes. I tried to capture every detail I could with my eyes as if I had a photographic memory. Memories flooded back to us. I’m sure somewhere in the universe, as light travels the vast space, our laughter is still echoing through our home.

The hardest part was saying goodbye to the library in my room, which contained all of the books that I cherished and had been collecting for years. They were part of who I am and I wished I could take them with me, along with all of the things I love. Do you want to know what my safe zone is? Reading books is my safe zone. Reading on my couch while taking a sip of hot chocolate every time a puff of a gentle cold breeze caresses my face. Or reading at university where there are quiet, beautiful trees and stunning nature.

I read to detach myself from the grim reality that was unfolding outside the pages of my books. Instead of enjoying family nights, and swaying between poem stanzas in the evening, which I love to do every autumn, I was surrounded by the unknown.

On the last night at my house, I stared at the darkness, the faceless darkness, just like my near future. It felt like I was trying to escape a never-ending nightmare.

Home is now a constant state of fear

Six months after being forcibly displaced to the south, where Israel had said it was safe, and which turned out not to be true, we now live in a constant state of confusion, fear, and anxiety.

In such horrendous days as I live now, My sanctuary has been to reminisce over the last months at my house. The memories make me realize how grateful I am for the life I’ve lived and how blessed I am to have such a wonderful family.

Never had I imagined that I’d go from worrying about my university assignments to worrying about which of my loved ones had got martyred, or to change from a girl who has never seen a tank nearby or even from afar to living through an unfolding genocide, where the city I love is being turned into ashes — from moving freely and being able to roam the streets at night to having to pass through military barriers, getting searched and seeing dead bodies lying on the ground, from living in a beautiful home and having a happy life to being displaced and stripped of my life.

I was reading in my room on my sofa peacefully and warmly, but now I’m sitting on the floor reading in the cold surrounded by horror. I had beautiful clothes to warm me up in the cold but now I miss them and I feel that the cold is so harsh that I hate the winter I’ve always loved.

Our beautiful home and city in ruins

Recently, we received the devastating news that our home had been flattened. The news hit us like a thunderbolt. Denial overcame us. We could not believe the news until we saw that most residential buildings and homes in our area were razed to the ground.

My beautiful city now lies in ruins. Every beautiful memory I have has been reduced to ashes. I miss the warmth and love of members of my family who used to visit us at our home and felt our love, but now they are gone, leaving behind the memory of their voices, laughs, and fun. Thirty of them were stolen by death when Israel’s occupation blew up the building.

This life of displacement is unpleasant, to say the least. It is difficult to live in a place that is not ours — it doesn’t feel like home; it’s a very scary place and free of doors, windows, and colors, too.

The life we live now is devoid of meaning, mostly because it is imposed on us. Time ticks slowly when you’re in a constant state of fear of being bombed.

All of this is guaranteed to leave a void in our hearts that is irreparable, for what we’ve lost is irreplaceable. Though I do not wish to sound defeatist, as I write this on April 4, 2024, I see no end to this war.

I feel that what was written about the aftermath of the Nakba — displacement, death, and destruction— can be analyzed to perfectly predict what is yet to come. I truly hope that I am wrong, however.

Clinging to an iota of hope

Now that the Israeli genocidal war has passed the six-months mark. I know my traumatic experience will linger on in my mind forever.

Each day, I have to convince myself that it is not yet totally bleak and that there’s light at the end of this tunnel. We try not to be pessimistic, but it’s harder to be optimistic as death, pain, and destruction inch closer by the minute.

I cling to an iota of hope that persists in my heart, that we will endure and prosper after this ordeal. Yet we will forever remember the wonderful life we have not fully realized, and we dream that one day it will be brought back to us somehow.

Until that day comes, we now feel the urge for a fresh start. Six months of my life have passed, throughout which I’ve lived in horror and despair. It is seemingly impossible that I will get my life back as it was before this war any time. That’s why my family and I have decided to try to leave Gaza so that we can have a chance to retrieve a glimpse of normalcy. So that we can complete our university and career and not stay here in this place isolated from the world.