On the eve of Oct. 6, 2023, I worked on a university assignment with my friend Ghada. We had put so much effort into it, and I vividly recall the joy and accomplishment we felt when we finished. We went to sleep afterward, eager for the next morning at university.
At 6:30 a.m. on Oct. 7, 2023, I jumped out of bed, filled with excitement, ready to meet up with Ghada. I called her, and as we were talking, we suddenly heard deafening explosions. It became clear – the war had arrived again. I still remember the crushing sense of betrayal and fear we felt that day. A wave of sorrow washed over gripped with the anxiety that we might miss the chance to experience the joy of graduation. Our university swiftly announced the suspension of all classes.
From that moment on, my entire world flipped upside down. It has been over a year since I last saw Ghada, and I have not been able to walk through the corridors of my university, which was once alive with the voices of students. Now, my university is nothing but rubble! I felt as if all my dreams had been crushed, slipping into the realm of impossibility, leaving me with a profound emptiness. It was as if a part of me had died. Everything I had looked forward to was suddenly taken from me.
Unfortunately, that was only the beginning. I was forced to leave my home because of the Israeli Occupation, the place that once surrounded me with warmth and peace, a sanctuary where I felt safe. On the sixth day of this cursed war, my family received the order to evacuate our entire neighborhood, and head from the north to the south of the Gaza Strip. At first, my mother refused to leave, knowing all too well that the Israeli Occupation was deceiving us with the notion of a “safe place.” But fear overwhelmed us, suffocating every thought. We made the heart-wrenching decision to leave – not because we believed in the empty promise of safety, but because we could not bear the thought of facing death.
I will never forget how I felt at that moment. I looked at my home one last time, taking in every inch of it, saying goodbye to everything on its premises. I could still hear the sound of our laughter, the warmth of our family conversations… They linger in my ears. I asked myself, how can I endure this pain tearing me apart? How could I say goodbye to everything I have loved, all at once? We had to leave immediately, or we would be obliterated. We fled in haste, our street overcrowded with neighbors and friends, all running for their lives. Fear was in every corner, on every face. I will never forget those moments, the crushing weight of it all. I saw my father embrace his friend, a farewell soaked in grief and finality. Through the heartbreak, we clung to the fragile hope that we might meet again and one day return to our neighborhood. We never knew that we would lose Tal Al-Hawa, that it would turn to rubble, and all our memories would be completely wiped away.
We evacuated from the north of Tal Al-Hawa to Khan Younis in the south of Gaza, which the deceptive occupation claimed was a "safe zone." We knew it was a trick, but fear of dying after we received the evacuation order forced us to leave. Just three hours after we arrived in Khan Younis, on our first day of displacement, we were dealt a devastating shock. I was praying in a room with my sister, while my family sat in the living room watching the news when we felt a bombardment so violent it shook the ground itself. The house next door was bombed! Its collapse impacted the house we were in, the walls collapsing inward. The lights went out, plunging us into complete darkness. My sister Farah and I could not see a thing, we could only hear the sound of destruction. We were filled with fear as we rushed to check on our family. Panic consumed me, my heart racing with dread and my mind racing with suffocating thoughts.
The silence was overwhelming. We did not hear a voice or sound. Farah turned on her phone's flashlight. That is when I saw the rubble. My scream tore through the air, raw and desperate. I feared the worst, convinced that I had lost my family. Suddenly, I heard my father and my little brother Zaid coughing through the rubble, their voices strained and full of pain. Then came my mother’s voice, trembling as she prayed loudly, begging God to save us. At that moment, hearing them again felt like a miracle. Their voices were pulling me back from the edge of despair – the sound of life, of hope, of everything I thought I'd lost.
But the worst was yet to come. We had not heard my brother Mohammed's voice since the blast! Farah hysterically started screaming his name, her voice breaking with each call. We searched, hearts pounding, barely able to breathe, praying for a sign that he was still alive.
And then, we found him.
He was lying motionless in a pool of blood. His face was so still, so pale, and it felt like time itself had stopped. My mind couldn't process what I was seeing. Mohammed – unconscious and bleeding from a head injury – was still breathing. My mother's crying was like nothing I had ever heard. It was a sound that ripped through the very fabric of my soul. Zaid, who had always looked up to Mohammed and followed him like a shadow, saw his idol and brother injured. He screamed.
We cried for help, begging neighbors to call an ambulance. My father carried Mohammed with the paramedics. Mama also went with them, leaving Farah, Zaid and I to wait alone. I could not pretend to be strong for Zaid; I could not hide my terror. Our neighbors took care of us until the rest of my family left the hospital and came back.
I couldn’t sleep that night. It was our second day of displacement. I called my mother to check on Mohammed. The doctors treated his wounds, but he had a skull fracture, and there was no treatment besides time. When she described his condition, I broke down. At least, I thought, he will recover.
I can’t forget that nightmare. I had lost everything – my home, and my future. My dreams were buried under the rubble, and the life I once knew was lost. But amid the destruction and the pain, I cling to the one thing that still remains: the fragile hope that one day, somehow, we will rebuild. For now, I face each day heartbroken by what was lost, yet still holding on, refusing to surrender to despair.
