cross-posted from: https://news.abolish.capital/post/7495

On my journey home, memories of my former life flooded me: the streets once beautiful, full of cars and smiling faces.

When I finally fled from my home in Gaza City to Khan Younis in southern Gaza this September, I left behind everything that reminded me of myself. I dreamed of returning, yet I kept wondering whether there was anything left for me to stay for in this land.

In the south, I felt like a stranger. If exile feels this hollow inside Gaza, what would life abroad be like? I spent a whole month in a tent among the trees, haunted by the details of Gaza — its streets, its scent, its mornings. The most painful part was knowing that I was still in Gaza, yet unable to reach my own city. I was displaced by force, not by “choice”: The tower I lived in was bombed twice. The situation was unbearable.

Every night, I sat outside the tent asking myself: How can they keep me away from my home, my life, my place, and all my memories? I dreamed of returning to a place only about 25 kilometers (15 miles) away — and yet, it felt unreachable. I became a stranger in my own land.

The day I was displaced to the south, September 23, was one of exhaustion and terror. Our area was heavily bombed, and when death began to close in from every direction, we decided to flee.

The journey took 10 long hours — filled with fear, fatigue, and chaos. Everyone was running from death, yet there were no vehicles to escape in. The few vehicles that existed were weak, overcrowded, and painfully expensive because of the soaring fuel prices.

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