The building where Nadera had lived in Al-Shuja’iyya. Photo: Nadera Mushtha

I was born and raised in the Al-Shuja’iyya neighborhood of Gaza City. I spent my whole life here until the Israeli occupation authorities forced us to evacuate on April 12, 2025. When we fled, we left behind our memories, photos, and other important things, thinking that we would return after two days or a week at most. I didn’t even turn back to take a final look as we went out the door. I didn’t stop to memorize each corner of our home. I believed that we would have another chance to live in it.

After we left, the Israelis bombed Al-Shuja’iyya. The war was brutal, with so much death and bloodshed. One day, when there was a pause in the bombing, my father, brother and sister went to our neighborhood to see what they could salvage from our home. Because of the destruction, no one could enter, except for my younger sister who was small enough to squeeze through a narrow hole in the wall. She struggled to get inside and managed to drag out some clothes and other items. She told me, “I was so afraid, the few remnants of buildings that were still standing felt like nothing. I could only see the sky. I could see the tanks in the distance in Al-Muntar.”

The next day my parents, sister, brother, and I returned to Al-Shuja’iyya to try to retrieve anything else that we could. We walked with difficulty over the rubble so we could reach our building. My heart was afraid, all my cells were filled with fear, and when we entered the neighborhood, what I saw turned me into a body without heart, legs, or eyes.

A memory hit my mind like a stone. I remembered the news about our neighbors who were killed when they returned to their home to find some clothes and blankets before their displacement to the south. I was waiting for the time of our martyrdom, wondering what would kill us. A missile? A rocket? Gunfire? Which of us would die, and who would survive to see the torn flesh and blood of their family members? Who would scream and who would cry?

I lost control of my legs and fell to the ground. My sister pulled me to my feet and held my hand so that I could walk. The sound of the drones was high and near, quadcopters hovered above us. I wondered why had I come, why had we come?

They had destroyed our apartment. They made our home empty of everything; only the columns remained. Even the furniture of the home had disappeared, but, miraculously, my brother’s bedroom and mine had remained  in good condition.

The view from Nadera’s home; a tent city is visible below. Photo: Nadera Mushtha

That day, we helped each other to take everything that we found useful or necessary. One of us would carry a basket to the end of the street, another would come and take it further, then come back to get something else. While we worked silently, anxiety was eating us alive. After we did this work, we left the neighborhood; our hearts came back to us once we were away from there.

All the former residents of our neighborhood are now living in western Gaza, even though there are few homes. Some are in the remaining apartments with extremely high rent, and some are in tents while the heat of summer is coming. We are all the same — homeless, without privacy, comfort, or a calm life. Everyone from Al-Shuja’iyya is living with a deep longing for their past lives and all that we have lost. 

A few months ago, my family and I were talking about the North and the South of Gaza, and about the “yellow line” that the Israelis had built with concrete blocks and enforced with snipers and missiles. They had made Gaza City so far away from the rest of the territory for over a year. All our dreams felt lost because Al-Shuja’iyya was behind the “yellow line,” where the occupation army makes sure that no residents can reach it. Even though they had destroyed our calm home, we still longed to breathe the air of our place; we wanted to feel that we still belonged somewhere. We wondered whether now the war was over, we should try to return. 

In March 2026, I stood on a high place at the end of Omar Al-Mukhtar Street overlooking my neighborhood to see what Israel had done after I left almost a year before. I was shocked. Everything was leveled; not a building or wall was standing. Everything had been bulldozed to rubble, from the beginning to the end. Everything was grey and black for as far as I could see.

Every day now we ask ourselves, “When and where?” Even if we are allowed to return to Al-Shuja’iyya, where would we live when the entire area is filled with thousands of destroyed homes and rubble is strewn over every meter? 

Israeli channel i24News reported that the Israeli army has recently begun digging a deep trench along the “yellow line”. Even after the ceasefire, most of Al-Shuja’iyyaa is on the side of the line controlled by Israel. So, what does that mean for us? 

When I looked at a random picture posted on Facebook a few days ago, I got goosebumps. It was a recent photo of the entrance area of our big neighborhood, and I saw that wild roses had bloomed there again in a place that was once filled with the sounds of life and people. Could this be a sign that we too will return?