Since October 7, the people of northern Gaza have been receiving leaflets telling them to head south of Wadi Gaza, as the north will become a battlefield.
Since December 3, the people of Khan Younis have been receiving leaflets telling them to head south of Wadi Gaza, declaring Khan Younis a combat zone.

Since March, the people of Rafah, Gaza’s southernmost city, having witnessed the horrific massacres and the atrocities committed in Gaza City and Khan Younis, were left asking, “Where will we go?” This was not a new question for anyone in Rafah, which included the million displaced people who came from the north and center of the Strip and the 300,000 native residents. “Where is a safe place? What safety and security are there?”
This question had been on people’s minds since Ramadan, when the Israeli army leaders started threatening a ground operation in Rafah. Some of us believed Rafah wouldn’t be evacuated, saying, “Rafah is full of people. Where would they go? There’s no place in the Strip that can accommodate 1.3 million people. Rafah is just a pressure card for negotiations.” This was a common belief, as the sheer number of people in Rafah seemed to make a military operation impossible. But the Israeli army had a different idea.
Others, having lost hope in the world’s humanity and life itself, knowing well the terror of the Israeli army, said, “If the army says they’ll enter Rafah, they will. It’s only a matter of time.”
I tried to reassure myself against the fear of displacement, after seeing the suffering etched on the faces of everyone I encountered. As a native of Rafah, I kept telling myself, “They won’t enter Rafah. Believe me, the world will not stay silent.”
I used to take my sisters to a place called Al-Sawafi, a sort of hill near the Egyptian border and the Philadelphi Route. It was a tent city, a world crowded with the displaced who had lost their homes and sought refuge on a piece of land that no one visited before the war. Every time I went there, I told myself that this scene alone would prevent Rafah from being invaded.
I don’t know how I convinced myself that the world’s humanity would save 1.3 million people crowding in Rafah from the horror of displacement — a horror compounded by already being burned alive, killed on the streets, and besieged in homes, schools, and hospitals.
I held onto the last thread of hope in humanity, but I was let down.
False hopes for a ceasefire
All of this began on May 7 of this year. We thought the Palestinian side’s agreement to a ceasefire proposal would end the war and prevent the displacement of Rafah residents. That day, I was happy, but now I want nothing but to cry over my false happiness.
The army responded to the agreement by invading Rafah, closing the crossing with Egypt, taking control of it, and entering the Philadelphi Route, positioning themselves in the east of the city. That shattered all my hopes, but I still tried to create hope, convincing myself they were only entering the eastern areas because they were border zones. Maybe they were just trying to show they had entered Rafah for negotiations. This army only cares about the false image of victory.
But all my hopes were dashed when the order to evacuate central Rafah came on May 11. Still, I clung to hope, thinking they wouldn’t enter the western area because it was the most crowded and where the Mawasi region was — a designated “safe zone.” We were the last remaining place with any semblance of human conditions. Surely it would be declared a safe zone.
Indeed, it was announced that the western region was a humanitarian zone. They didn’t say it was safe, but it was understood that it might be targeted but not entered militarily, at least not at this stage. But it was another lie from the occupation, which is accustomed to lying and the world believing them.
Just two weeks later, the army began committing massacres in western Rafah, starting with burning tents of the displaced in western Rafah’s “Al-Barkasat,” leading to over 40 people being burned alive, including children, women, and young men with no relation to the conflict.
We didn’t sleep that night for the sound of ambulances. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the ambulance sirens getting closer. The targeted place was just 10 minutes from my home, and my father had been there 15 minutes before, filling our drinking water. My mind refused to contemplate any scenario in which he had been delayed, to avoid losing my sanity.
Since that night, the area saw more displacement due to intense fear — not just for themselves, but also for their children fighting to survive. On the night of May 27 and the morning of May 28, the terror escalated in western Rafah. The occupation advanced swiftly and unexpectedly from the east to the center and began targeting western Rafah, Tal Zorab, with shells reaching the western part.
This led to a state of panic in the city, especially among the residents of the western part who thought they were safe. The sound of shelling didn’t stop from 11 p.m.until dawn, with the same intensity, randomness, and terror as the night before. Many people in Tal Zorab were trapped and couldn’t flee due to continuous shelling.
That night, for the first time, we didn’t hear the dawn call to prayer in Rafah. My father said it was the first time in 57 years he hadn’t heard the adhan, and he cried. The news had said that the minaret of the nearby Taiba Mosque had been targeted.
When morning came, my father went out to check on the neighbors and see what they were planning to do. He returned with a pale face, horrified by the sight of mass displacement outside. Everyone was fleeing, their faces and eyes filled with questions about the fate of their homes, their futures, and where they would go!
The city became empty. People evacuated their homes in the western areas under fire without any prior notice. They fled under a night of aerial artillery and naval bombardment — beginning a new ordeal of finding water, food, and the basics of a subsistence existence.
And so, Rafah was evacuated from east to west after the occupation announced a “limited,” “surgical” operation in Rafah that wouldn’t harm civilians, after declaring the western area a humanitarian zone.
We were forced to leave Rafah under fire. I don’t know how long Israel will continue to lie and the world will keep believing them.
From Rafah to Mawasi
People fled to the Mawasi area of Khan Younis to live in subhuman living conditions, struggling to find clean drinking water and a cool place. Summer began, and the tent didn’t protect us from the scorching summer sun but rather felt like an oven, suffocating us inside. Many chose this difficult path to save themselves and their children, seeking only the bare minimum to survive.
What does it mean for an operation not to harm civilians when we are forced to evacuate our homes under fire to tents lacking all the basic necessities for life? What does it mean when people are trapped and killed in Tal Zorab, when tents of displaced people are burned, when a child who can’t even hold a weapon and only knows his mother’s smile is killed?
What does it mean for the International Court of Justice to issue a decision to stop military operations in Rafah and for the decision to be ignored as if it was never made?
Has the world lost its humanity to the point of remaining silent about this displacement — this slow and collective death? What is the value of a Palestinian life? Where is the international community and humanitarian law that is supposed to save us? Will Rafah be the final chapter, or will the army move to the central areas and return to Khan Younis as they say?
When will it end, and if it does, we will even be here to witness it?