What Do Palestinians in Gaza Say About Plans to Displace Them?

Trump’s remarks about displacing Gaza’s population have provoked a sharp backlash, both regionally and internationally. For Arab states, in particular, the resistance to these plans is driven by a deep-seated fear of being seen as complicit in dismantling the Palestinian cause — a stance that could carry serious domestic repercussions. There is also a growing unease that these nations might once again become staging grounds for Palestinian resistance, as they did in the aftermath of the 1948 Nakba, a scenario that could entangle them in internal strife, regional conflicts, or even a renewed confrontation with Israel.

Away from political debates and the media frenzy surrounding the proposal of displacement as a blueprint for Gaza’s future, I — a Palestinian from Gaza who has lived abroad for years out of necessity, not by choice, and who longs to return when the right circumstances arise — began to wonder: What do the people of Gaza think about what is being said and discussed regarding their fate?

With that in mind, and in my role as a journalist, I reached out to a group of journalists and activists in Gaza — those who have endured every phase of the ongoing genocide — and posed a simple but urgent question:

"What do the people of Gaza want? Do they reject displacement, or do they truly wish to leave what Trump has called ‘hell’?"

"Even If They Strike Us with Nuclear Weapons, We Will Not Leave"

Yosra Al-Aklouk, a journalist and a widow of a martyr who lost her home in the war, reflects on her experience — both as a reporter and as a witness:

"When I spoke to people who had been displaced and later returned, I kept hearing the same phrase repeated: ‘Even if they strike us with nuclear weapons, we will not move an inch.’ A true believer does not fall for the same trick twice. Those who fled once believed there were safe places to go, only to realize that was untrue — that leaving was not an escape, but another catastrophe. Many were targeted even in displacement shelters, while some who remained in their homes found, against all odds, that they were safer."

Fatima Abdullah, also a journalist and the widow of a martyr who lost her home in northern Gaza, shares Yosra’s conviction. To her, Trump’s displacement plan was doomed before it began — not by diplomatic opposition or global outcry, but by the defiance of the Palestinians in Gaza who had lived through the devastation and still chose to return.

“The sight of people making their way back from the south to the north was the clearest, most unambiguous answer to his plan. We are a people who have never abandoned our land, not in the depths of war, not in the face of death. Those in the north who were forced to flee south spent every moment waiting for the chance to return. There was no hesitation, no expectation of aid — only an irrepressible longing for return. And that, more than anything, is proof that the idea of displacement has no foothold in the consciousness of Gaza’s people.”

Fatima points out how the experience of displacement during the recent war has profoundly reshaped how Palestinians think about leaving Gaza. In her view, any future escalation will not unfold in the same way:

“Today, after everything we have witnessed, I can say with certainty that in any later round of war, people will not leave their homes as they did this time. They now understand that the so-called safety promised by the occupation is nothing more than an illusion, that to leave is to step into the slow machinery of permanent displacement. We are the rightful owners of this land, and that conviction will not waver, no matter the cost of staying.”

Beyond the resolve to resist exile, Yosra Al-Aklouk offers another dimension to the question. For her, it is not just about rejecting displacement — it is about Gaza itself. "Gaza needs its people," she says. The genocide, she explains, has not weakened that bond but deepened it, making the thought of separation unbearable.

"Perhaps I’ll have to leave one day — for medical treatment or maybe just for a change of scenery. But even the idea terrifies me now. This war has entwined us with Gaza in ways we never expected. It feels like a part of us. We are not just its inhabitants; we are woven into its very spirit. We feel its pain, its suffocation, its anger. To walk away from it now, in this shattered state, is unthinkable. Gaza can only recover through us, not be emptied and left to suffer alone. If everyone leaves, who will remain for her?”

"For a long time, I thought this feeling was mine alone. But every person I’ve spoken to has said the same. This war has bound us to Gaza more than we ever imagined. Anyone who sees it now cannot bring themselves to leave — not because it is perfect, but because it needs us, just like we need it."

In another testimony, the same unshakable determination as Yosra’s was echoed. Doha Al-Sayfi, a journalist and the wife of a freed prisoner, lost her home in the war, as did her family and relatives, leaving her in dire humanitarian conditions — without shelter and without the most basic necessities. And yet, there was one possibility she never entertained, not even for a moment: leaving Gaza for good, no matter the temptations.

"I have lived through every war. I have lost my home, my family’s home. I have watched my siblings become displaced, all of us left without shelter. The United States and other countries have offered us the option of migration, promising a new life, a fresh start. But I tell them plainly: even if you cover all our expenses, even if the wealthiest country in the world guarantees us comfort and security, we will not leave Gaza. This land is not simply where we live — it is part of us, woven into our blood, our very beings."

She continues, "We do not stay because we have no alternatives — we stay because we love Gaza, because we belong to it. We have lived its joys, endured its sorrows, stood unshaken through its darkest hours. How could we leave now? Gaza is not just a city; it is an identity, a history etched into our consciousness. They could offer us every luxury elsewhere, even New York with all that it holds, and we would not take it. We were born here, we drank its water, breathed its air, were nourished by its blessings – and we have watered its soil with the blood of our loved ones."

For Doha, belonging to Gaza is not about geography or even about endurance. It is something more elemental, something that no degree of comfort or stability elsewhere could ever replace. "Life here may be harsh, but this is where we belong, and nowhere else. To leave Gaza would not just be to leave a place, it would be to sever something within ourselves. That is why we stay. That is why we will continue to live here, no matter how insurmountable the hardships. Because Gaza is not just our home. It is our soul."

Fatima Abdullah shares the same conviction, even as Gaza endures devastation on an insurmountable scale. Life as it once was no longer exists. The basic necessities for survival — water, electricity, shelter — have all but disappeared. And yet, people refuse to leave. "Gaza today is in ruins. No homes, no water, no electricity. There is nothing here that makes life possible. And yet, people are pitching their tents atop the rubble, willing a new existence into being, creating life from nothing.”

She adds: “The world has abandoned us, but we will not turn to it. We will not abandon our land. No matter the cost, we will remain steadfast."

"People here understand one thing with absolute clarity: no one will defend their right to stay except themselves. We will not leave. We will not give the occupation the chance to erase us from this land. Displacement is not an option for us. Staying is the battle we fight every single day, not just for ourselves, but for Gaza’s future."

These testimonies reflect a stark, unwavering truth: displacement is not merely rejected, it is inconceivable. Palestinians understand that leaving Gaza today, under any pretext, would not be a temporary departure but an erasure. It would transform the Palestinian cause from a struggle for liberation into a mere humanitarian crisis, a question of aid rather than of return. And they know, more than anyone, how displacement works. Gaza’s people – more than 70 percent of them refugees from another time, another war — carry the memory of the Nakba in their very blood. In 1948, their parents and grandparents were forced from their cities and villages, and promised that exile would be brief, that return was imminent. Seven decades later, generations of Palestinians are still scattered across refugee camps and distant exile, their displacement calcified into permanence.

A Need for Personal Healing

For all the fierce rejection of migration expressed in these testimonies, many in Gaza carry an equally intense longing to leave — not permanently, but momentarily. To step away to heal mentally and emotionally from the devastation and trauma they have endured for the past 15 months.

Yosra Al-Aklouk says: "Like anyone else, I wish I could travel, to see open landscapes and water, to feel safe, to inhale air that carries no trace of burning, no scent of destruction. I want to see colors other than the gray of shattered buildings, to walk through streets where beauty still stands. Even my children, everything they know is war, bombing, and displacement. I wish I could take them somewhere they could see life differently. Every person in Gaza wants to travel. But every Palestinian, no matter how much they long to leave, follows that thought with a single, unshakable phrase: ‘But not for displacement.’"

Hala Shehadeh a journalist and the wife of a martyr who lost her home in northern Gaza also speaks of this yearning for reprieve away from the destruction. The war, she says, has exhausted everyone in ways words cannot capture. The weight of destruction presses down not just on homes and streets, but on minds, on spirits. "If I had the choice, and if travel were even possible, I would go, to recover, to breathe again after all this suffering. But on one condition: that I can return whenever I want. I am not seeking migration, only a brief respite, a chance to restore myself before coming back to where I belong. That is why you must underline the word ‘return’ a million times — because returning is the essence of it all. It is the line that separates traveling from being lost."

Displacement by Other Means: The Illusion of Choice

For all of Israel’s awareness that Palestinians are deeply rooted in their land, its push for indirect displacement has not relented. Where forced expulsion has failed, another strategy has emerged: making life so unbearable that leaving begins to seem like a choice. By reducing Gaza to ruins — by systematically dismantling the conditions that make survival possible — the occupation has turned migration into something that appears voluntary, even when it is anything but.

The testimonies I heard reject exile in all its forms. And yet, after months of war, after starvation, siege, and the destruction of homes, some have begun to waver.

Sami, a Palestinian father who lost both his home and his livelihood in the war, does not want to go. But he is struggling to see a future in Gaza. "I’m not against resilience," he says, "but what am I supposed to do? No home, no job, no future. If I stay, I will die slowly. I know that migration means absence – maybe forever. But sometimes there is no other choice."

Yosra Al-Aklouk has heard these doubts before. The pressure, she says, is relentless.

"Many people here never considered leaving. But when survival becomes impossible – when securing a single meal, finding a place to sleep, turns into an insurmountable struggle — some begin to ask themselves: How long can we live like this? Israel doesn’t need to tell us to leave directly. Instead, it makes life here unlivable, so that leaving feels like a decision we arrived at on our own. But in reality, this is forced displacement by another name."

She describes a calculated form of coercion, after failing to forcibly expel Palestinians outright. Where violence alone could not drive Palestinians out, siege, starvation, and the deliberate obstruction of rebuilding have become silent weapons of war, all aimed at producing a single outcome: what Israel calls “voluntary migration.”

"Today, they don’t outwardly say ‘leave.’ Instead, they strip life of its essentials — no water, no electricity, no schools, no jobs, no homes, no hope. You are left with two choices: either rebuild from nothing, with no guarantees that you will ever have the means to do so, or attempt to start anew somewhere else. They want you to believe that there is no future here — that leaving is the only way forward."

And in Gaza, people know: this pressure will not end with a ceasefire.

For many in Gaza, survival has become a daily negotiation with despair. Doha Al-Sayfi describes how life has grown intolerable, a relentless burden that weighs on everyone.

"We want to stay," she says, "but life has become a daily struggle. No electricity, no clean water, no medicine – nothing. Even the places that once seemed livable are now uninhabitable. Some have begun to ask themselves: ‘Has staying here become a form of madness?’"

Fatima Abdullah speaks of this grim reality with bitterness.

"Gaza today is nothing like it was before the war," she says. "There’s no longer a single place fit for living. People are surviving among the ruins, exposed to the rubble, without electricity or water. And yet, they remain. The occupation is betting that this reality will break us – that it will push us to surrender and leave."

For some, that pressure is inescapable. Hala Shehadeh, knows the feeling all too well.

"When your city is destroyed and you’re left with no home, no job, no water, and no future for your children, the thought of leaving creeps in. The occupation doesn’t need to tell you to go — it makes life impossible, so that leaving begins to feel like the only choice you have left."

Yet even in the face of such suffocating pressure, there is a growing awareness that this slow unraveling of life is no accident. Every delay in reconstruction, every obstruction of aid, carries a purpose — one designed to wear down the spirit, to make Gaza’s people feel as if exile is their only path forward.

The testimonies I heard all point to the same conclusion: Palestinians know this strategy for what it is, and they refuse to be expelled from their land.

Hala Shehadeh speaks of that awareness with quiet resolve:

"The war was brutal, it drained us, left us no room to breathe. But not for a single moment did I consider migration as a permanent solution. How could I leave everything behind? My family, my friends, the streets where I spent my childhood — every detail of my life is etched into this land. I cannot leave knowing that what is happening is no accident; it is a calculated plan to uproot us and force us out with no way back."

Fatima Abdullah also believes Israel’s strategy will fail — just as past attempts to erase Gaza have failed.

"The people who lost their homes are still here, despite everything. The occupation believed destruction would drive people out, but instead, they found them pitching tents atop the rubble of their homes. Gaza is not just a place — it is part of who we are. Leaving it is not just about changing locations; it is about erasing an identity entirely."

How Can the Displacement Plan Be Thwarted?

History has shown that displacement projects fail when they meet firm Palestinian resistance, backed by strong regional support to the cause — a dynamic that has played out at key moments in the past. Today, even in the face of escalating military and economic pressure, even as the basic conditions for life collapse, the possibility of thwarting these displacement plans remains, but success depends on more than sheer willpower. It requires the ability to stay, not just in spirit, but in practice.

As the testimonies from Gaza make clear, resilience is not a romantic ideal — it is a daily battle tied to the most fundamental necessities of life. Palestinians do not simply want to endure; they want to live with dignity. They want unconditional reconstruction, an end to the constant siege, and the assurance that border crossings and humanitarian aid will not be weaponized as leverage to force them out.

Doha Al-Sayfi describes the stark reality of what it means to persist under such conditions:

"We don’t want to live under the rubble. We want homes, air, the ability to eat and get medicine without humiliation."

Hala Shehadeh puts it even more bluntly: "We don’t survive on slogans — we live in a harsh reality."

This article was translated into English by Jude Taha.