Time is human, time is ever-changing, never the same, time is unexpected, time is ruthless, and time is everything.

Everything can go so right in a matter of seconds, and in a matter of seconds, all hell can break loose.

I remember the exact time when everything went so wrong and so right.

Open air, clean air, and it’s quiet, so quiet.

This is the first thing I noticed as the bus traveled from Rafah to Egypt: open space and stillness. A blinding light welcomed me. That’s when I knew that I crossed the border.

I knew I crossed the border when I smelled fresh air, not gunpowder.

I knew I crossed the border when my skin tightened and my heartbeat raced as if I’d been running for the past seven hours.

It’s been a year since I left home and almost six months since I left Palestine, but never in my life have I felt this helpless or homeless. I once told a friend I wish I hadn’t gone, and she replied, “I wish I didn’t survive.” That sentence stuck with me. It broke me.

A genocide survivor. What is that? We’re still living the horrors and atrocities daily; not a day goes by that new massacres do not occur. There’s no such thing as surviving. Even if I am not physically there now, it doesn’t mean I did survive it. The horrors follow every time there’s a racing car. I feel its engine roaring in my head, in my trembling fingers. A balloon popped, and my heart burst, and my body jumped. It’s a reflex now.

How can I be a survivor when I know my family and friends are still living in the sheds?

What does it mean to survive? Do the horrors and the nightmares ever end?

I am not a survivor. I am not fighting my way through life. I’m not trying to live it anymore.

I just want all of this to end.

My heart stayed behind

Everywhere I go, I am there, in my identity as a Palestinian from Gaza, a refugee. The Gaza Strip was a prison, but it’s nothing compared to this one: imprisonment of the mind and time.

It’s not easy being a foreigner; here I am in the U.S., doing I don’t know what, around strange people in this foreign land away from my family, away from everything I once knew, and it is so much worse to be a refugee — not a day goes by when I’m not reminded that I’m so far away from home.

I cried the first time I saw food stocked in aisles, when I first saw people laughing wholeheartedly, when I had my very first warm meal in months. I cried and choked. People are going on with their lives as if, not a few hours away from them, people are not being burned alive, and babies are not being beheaded — just like any other day.

I still have friends and family back home. Sometimes, I can’t even ask how they are because I know they’ll lie and say they’re okay to make me believe it.

I carry the guilt of safety and comfort within me. Every bite I take feels stolen; every moment of warmth feels undeserving. I left, but my heart stayed behind, aching with them. It feels selfish to wish I were there, but the distance only deepens my helplessness. Being far away doesn’t shield me from the pain.

I was there. And I wish I were back there.

Life feels hollow

I used to think that home was just the four walls and the roof that covered you. But here I am, “safe” in a house that shelters me, and I never feel at home. I was more at ease in Rafah. Yes, I dreaded every night — I never was at peace, but I felt at ease.

I find myself questioning what it means to live. Is it merely survival or the freedom to dream, feel, and belong? Back then, I clung to life despite the fear and chaos because it still felt meaningful — intertwined with the people I loved and the place I called home. Here, I am alive, but life feels hollow, like I’ve left a piece of my soul behind. I wanted to escape for a chance at something better, but now I wonder if I left my purpose in the place I fled.

The only constant in life is change, but this change has been so fast-paced that I can’t keep up. Back in Gaza, life moved to the rhythm of survival — each day felt like an eternity, hanging on by a thread as the nights stretched endlessly, filled with fear and uncertainty. Time slowed in the face of danger, every second marked by an awareness of life’s fragility. Now, life rushes forward a flood I can’t control, pulling me along with its current. The speed is overwhelming — people chasing goals, talking about futures I can barely imagine while still reliving memories of a place where even tomorrow felt uncertain. Whenever I’m asked about my future plans, I laugh.

At first, I held onto life so dearly, thinking there were still things I wanted to do and places I wanted to be. But now, the pace of this new life feels detached, like I’m floating outside of it. It contrasts so sharply with the slow, painful hanging I felt in Gaza, where every moment mattered deeply, where survival itself was an act of defiance. Here, I’m alive, but I feel unanchored, as though I left a part of myself behind in the stillness of Rafah, caught in a time that moves differently from the world around me. I wanted to see what life offers, but I don’t feel that anymore.

Still, I am glad that I wake up every day. In some twisted way, I’m hanging because every day I live is a day closer to death.

I once feared sudden death. Now, I fear prolonged death.

“Normal” feels abnormal

I think about how much I used to long for normalcy, a day without fear, without the heaviness of survival. Now that I have it, it feels strange, almost foreign. The monotony I once yearned for now feels suffocating. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because my idea of “normal” is tied to the chaos I left behind. Normal used to mean making it through the day with my loved ones, even if the world around us was crumbling. Here, normal feels empty, like it’s missing the urgency that gave life its meaning back then.

I remember missing and yearning for a typical day, but my definition of normal has changed. I can’t seem to appreciate the monotony of my days, and then I feel guilty for not appreciating my second chance at life. It’s a never-ending cycle.

To stay on top of everything, I used to grip my phone so tightly that I saw every notification before I even heard it. Every ping was a lifeline, a connection to my friends, family, and home in Gaza. Not a day went by without something devastating happening. Back then, my access to the internet was limited, so I missed updates, breakthroughs, and sometimes even the worst news until it was too late to process.

The habit hasn’t changed. I still clutch my phone like it’s an extension of myself, bracing for every headline and message. All news is bad news regarding Gaza — there is no relief, hope, or joy to break through the despair. Even from thousands of miles away, the weight of that constant barrage of pain and loss presses down on me, making it impossible to look away yet unbearable to keep watching.

Gaza is no open-air prison. The prison is everywhere else.