As we set out on our journey, a sense of happiness envelops us, filling us with excitement and anticipation for the wonderful adventure ahead. We chatter happily, gazing out of the car windows at the ever-changing landscape, exchanging words of awe and admiration. Laughter bubbles up as we eagerly plan all the exciting activities awaiting us when we reach our destination.
For 17 years, this is how I imagined traveling would be like, my longing fueled by the confines of a blockade that oppressed my beloved Gaza and imprisoned my dreams.
On March 6, 2024, a somber Sunday, my family and I embarked on a journey fleeing Gaza for Egypt. Each moment of that journey is carved in my memory. It was not the journey of wonder and joy I always dreamt of; instead, every step felt like a battle against the encroaching shadows of death.
We traveled under the relentless bombardment, with explosions echoing like thunder, which filled every moment with dread and uncertainty.
Every tick of the clock on that journey felt like a merciless thief, stealing one of my memories in the cruelest of ways, as if they were being carved from my mind with a blunt sword. Each detonation threatened to rip away the familiar sights, the cherished people, the beloved friends. Memories of places and people that no longer existed unfolded before my eyes, each one followed by another, pain trailing pain, farewell after farewell.
I gazed intently at the road, desperate to memorize every curve, while the houses stood like silent witnesses in the surrounding turmoil. The faces of innocent children reflected both resilience and fear amidst the chaos and destruction along the way. The thought that all of this could vanish in a single moment plagued my thoughts.
The memories weighed heavy on my heart ā places that once stood tall reduced to rubble, their absence a painful wound in the landscape. I couldnāt escape the images of neighborhoods I once knew, now silent and deserted, their stories untold, and their future shrouded in uncertainty. Friends lost forever and others I pray to meet again.
The crossing
The sounds of aircraft bombing echoed around us as our car pressed on towards Rafah Border Crossing. Each explosion intensified the pain, triggering fears that the next bomb could be aimed at a relative, or perhaps a close friend. As we neared the crossing, my immediate impulse was to call my friends, desperate to make sure they were alive, praying fervently that they were far from the reach of the bombardment.
Crossing from the Palestinian border to the Egyptian side was the most difficult experience of my life. It felt as if the very fabric of my soul was being torn while forcibly extracted from my body. I was engulfed by a wave of emotions, a swirling storm of pain, helplessness, weakness, abandonment, and betrayal. In that moment, it was as if I was confronting death itself.
I was not alone.
Amidst the crowd, everyone seemed to blend into one. I shifted between faces, searching for differences, but finding none. Each face, while unique, mirrored the same expression of pain, fear, and desperation. Their features were defined by suffering, their eyes haunted and distracted. In that sea of misery, I realized we were all bound together by the same unimaginable grief.
I had hoped this feeling would end as soon as I arrived in Egypt, but it didnāt. I felt an intense sense of guilt as I inhaled the cleaner air, free from the pollutants of Israeli rockets.
The deafening silence, without the incessant buzz of enemy drones ā known as the zanana, that had plagued Gazans since Oct. 7, added to the eerie quiet. The absence of rocket blasts, which often heralded the loss of family members, homes, and all their memories, further weighed on my conscience.
Guilt became overwhelming as I realized I was no longer burdened by the fear of being the next victim. I walked through streets untouched by tents, devoid of hungry children, and absent of grieving women lamenting lost husbands and their inability to feed their young ones.
That was the moment when I realized that luxuries in life are meaningless when the people we care about ā our friends, family, and loved ones ā canāt share in them.
First days in Egypt
The sight of the ancient historical walls and houses in Cairo brings back memories of Gaza before the genocide, stirring profound emotions for its archaeological sites. These remnants, buried deep in our hearts, are now immortalized after their existence was cut short during the genocide.
The sound of planes in Al-Muqattam near Cairo International Airport, where we resided during those first days, brought back memories of war-torn Gaza. These sounds, reminiscent of the ominous rumble of missile strikes before they destroy homes and lives, stood in stark contrast to the serenity outside. They were a chilling reminder of the fear and devastation that had gripped Gaza.
In those moments, it felt as though we had been transported back to Gaza, with the emotions of that besieged land flooding back. This stark contrast highlighted the painful reality of living without the constant fear and uncertainty ā a life that felt like a betrayal to the struggles of our loved ones and the people left behind in Gaza. It left me with the profound feeling that one canāt truly survive in Gaza or outside it. If you haven’t lost your body, you have lost your soul.
The calmness of the night, so foreign and unsettling, steals away my sleep. I find myself consumed by thoughts of Gazans who are still enduring these harrowing experiences. I shudder, feeling their fear of the intense bombardment and hearing the heart-wrenching cries of loss, truly grasping the essence of āI canāt sleep.ā
Even the familiar Ramadan atmosphere, once a source of delight on television, took on a frightening aspect when experienced in reality after the genocide.
The sounds of fireworks, a staple of Ramadan celebrations, or the booming cannons of the Ramadan breakfasts, now resembled the sounds of weapons and tanks from this fascist occupation.
Contrasting realities
The first meal we had after weeks and weeks of starvation, I couldnāt shake the thought of the abundance of food before us, contrasted with Gaza where children are becoming skin and bones before they die of hunger and thirst. People can’t access anything but ridiculously overpriced canned food, which only intensifies the craving for natural food that fills your stomach.
The dishes I ate in Egypt are associated with friends and loved ones, perhaps their favorite food, reminding me of gatherings we shared together, experiencing the vibrant colors of life before they faded away.
The longing for Gaza does not end with food; stepping into the shops and seeing the variety of merchandise forbidden to Gazan children, I feel as if I am betraying the tears and pains of those souls.
More than ever, seeing products manufactured by companies supportive of the oppressive Zionist regime fills me with disgust and disbelief towards those who purchase them. Each one of these items seems tainted with the blood of my people, making so many complicit in the killing of innocent children. How can someone reconcile such a moral dilemma and continue living in peace?
The occupation didnāt just steal our homes, memories, and dreams; it also robbed us of our lives and everything we’ve strived for throughout our existence. Perhaps the war will end, but will we ever recover from it?
