When Israel’s war on Gaza began and we prepared to leave our house, I packed makeup and a favorite book – things that seem superfluous today. I thought that small reminders of home would bring us comfort while we were away, awaiting the next attack.

But I didn’t expect to be gone for so long – none of us did. We thought this war would be like all the others and it would be a week, maybe a month or two, before the Israeli army unleashed its fury.

Now that I’ve lived away from home for more than 10 months, what I miss most is the idea of ​​it. I wonder if I’ll ever enjoy reading on my roof or sleeping in my bed again. Is my home even recognizable? I wonder. And will I ever have a home again?

I was born in 2002 and grew up in Gaza City. I have spent 17 of my 21 years under siege and survived at least five Israeli military attacks on Gaza. But none of that compares to the length and intensity of the current genocide.

These are the cruelest, most painful and surreal days we have ever experienced here in Gaza. For more than ten months, we feel like we are living the same day over and over again – only the pain is getting worse every day. It is always a bomb, a bullet, an artillery barrage, a wave of fear. As the death toll soars, we feel like we are moving further and further away from the negotiations that will put an end to this hell.

Israel has killed at least 40,005 Palestinians in Gaza. The death toll could be as high as 186,000, researchers write in the medical journal The Lancet. Countless bodies are still trapped under bombed buildings, and the number of people dying from hunger, lack of medical care and the collapse of public infrastructure is unknown.

Those of us who are living through this hell already know that the death toll is higher. There are houses near us that were bombed and there are people inside, but so far no one has been able to clear the rubble.

“Where can we go?”

With every bomb dropped, we ask ourselves: “Where are we going? Where can we go?”

For me, home wasn’t just my house. It was the feeling of safety within the warm walls, the sight of my clothes, the comfort of my pillow. It was the sound of my mother moving around inside. It was the delicious smell of my favorite dish, musakhan – sumac-spiced roasted chicken with caramelized onion flatbread – that filled the house.

My home was outside too. It was my university and the road that led to it, the smell of spices in the air, the markets, the yellow lights on the evenings of Ramadan and the sounds of people praying together and reciting the Quran.

In the displacement, home has taken on a different meaning. It is now a place where we find walls, a bathroom, water, a mattress to lie on and a blanket to cover ourselves with. I used to think that if I was attacked, I could somehow protect myself by covering my face with a blanket. I no longer believe that.

The day everything changed

I will never forget October 7th. It was not only the day we left our home in the north, it was also the day we left our hopes for the future behind.

I once dreamed of becoming a writer, getting my bachelor’s degree in literature and completing my master’s degree abroad. I would return to Gaza and teach young people about our history and heritage. I also wanted to continue painting and eventually open an art gallery. But my biggest dream was to see my country free.

Early that Saturday, around 6 a.m., rockets rained down in the skies over northern Gaza. My younger sister was getting ready to go to school. Little did we know that it would be the last day of school – not just for her, but for everyone, and that both students and institutions would be wiped out.

I was awakened by explosions. I was terrified. I had no idea what was happening.

My brother, who lived in Deir el-Balah, called my father. He was worried: our house is very close to the eastern border and we would be at risk in the event of an invasion from land. Together they agreed that the best thing would be to move to my brother’s house – in the center of Gaza and further away from the border.

Even today we are still displaced in Deir el-Balah.

Simple pleasures

War makes us miss the simple – even banal – joys of everyday life.

I miss our garden at home with its fragrant roses and olive, palm and orange trees. I miss the lemon trees most of all – the delicate scent of their white blossoms. On summer evenings my family spent time among the trees and in winter we built a fire to keep warm.

I miss the youthful cafes and busy streets of Gaza City – the life there – even when there was little water or no electricity due to constant blackouts.

And I loved going up to our roof to read with a cup of coffee and vanilla cupcakes.

When we left on October 7, I didn’t think twice about what to pack. I took a copy of Wuthering Heights, my pajamas and makeup – everyday items that would help make my escape seem a little more normal.

I even packed some vanilla cupcakes – a sweet consolation for what may come.

I haven’t eaten cake since then. All we have is dry bread and whatever canned goods we can buy.

Ten months later

Deir el-Balah, where my brother and mother’s family live, is a place my family used to visit on weekends and during summer holidays. I always complained that I couldn’t sleep anywhere other than my bed in our house. I haven’t seen that bed for 10 months.

Now I am lying on a mattress on the floor while my mother, father and younger sister are in the same room. The mattress is good and clean, and my family is close and together. But I am suffering from insomnia and anxiety. As I try to fall asleep, I look out the broken window and search for a star among the fighter planes racing through the sky, and I am afraid that missiles might fall on us.

Deir el-Balah was a quiet, small and clean town with fields of olive and palm trees. Today the town is suffocating. Because services have collapsed, garbage continues to pile up. The palm trees are now covered in dirt and rubble and are barely recognizable. The sky is ashen – air pollution from the bombing – and the ground is saturated with sewage. The air is putrid, like a dumpster. It smells of everything but home.

When we moved into my brother’s house, I thought the war would not last long and I continued with my studies – I didn’t want to fall behind. When I found out that my university had been bombed, I gave up hope for a while before looking for new employment opportunities. Today I study Italian and write poetry. When I’m scared, I like to clean the house. The pajamas I brought from home are now so worn out that I use them as kitchen rags.

Daily life consists of fetching water and looking for power sources to charge phones and lamps. Our neighbor has solar panels and a well powered by a generator. There we can charge our phones and sometimes shower. Every time I shower, I am grateful and think of my people who suffer from a lack of privacy, water and hygiene products. It is a constant struggle to gain access to communication and basic necessities such as shampoo and soap, dishwashing liquid, laundry detergent and razors.

People don’t know where to go. Children are begging for money and elderly people are sitting alone in the middle of the street.

Many people are constantly praying on the streets and in their tents. In Gaza we pray a lot – for an end to the sadness, the darkness and the pain. We have lost so much and so many people. Many of my cousins ​​and other family members are now dead.

Every moment of survival is a miracle, so we pray even more.

Home, then and now

My mental and physical health has deteriorated and it is difficult. I have nightmares and stomach problems because of the contaminated water and canned food. The pain is bad and it is really difficult to find medicine or painkillers – if any are available, they are very expensive.

When Israel began attacking Gaza, it did something even more sinister: it tried to destroy our ties to one another. It made us afraid and angry, desperate and psychologically exhausted.

But we were still there for each other. We tried to be calm and reassuring, tender and positive. We shared what we had with our neighbors. We tried to make the best of things, like baking cakes on the fire and having fun when it was possible. And when it wasn’t possible, we helped each other in the bad and worst times.

We still hoped to make our journeys and still wrote our stories.

At the beginning, we followed the news with hope. Despite the horror, we somehow believed that the international community would never allow things to turn out this way. I don’t think anyone has that hope anymore.

All we have left is hope for what we want to do when this is all over.

The other day I was sitting with my mother on the balcony of my brother’s apartment. She held me in her arms and I told her about my dreams. Within minutes, an apartment nearby was bombed. We were overwhelmed first by the deafening explosion and then by the noise of walls collapsing. A father and his two children were killed.

I wouldn’t wish the sound of a house full of memories and the people who live in it collapsing on anyone.

Today I feel I am ready to accept my fate. I always remember to tell my family that I love them – especially my mother, because I never know when it will be the last time I can do it.

I would gladly die if it would help my country. But there are so many things I want to do, see and learn. I want to meet more people, fall in love and start a family of my own. And I want to see my home, whatever condition it is in, one more time.