Lemon trees, safety, hope: Memories of my Gaza home before war came

When Israel’s war on Gaza began and we got ready to leave our house, I packed makeup and a favourite book – items that now might seem superfluous. I thought that small reminders of home would bring comfort while we were away waiting out the latest assault.

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

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

I was born in 2002 and raised in Gaza City. I’ve spent 17 of my 21 years living under siege, surviving at least five Israeli military assaults on Gaza. But none of those compare to the length and intensity of this current genocide.

These are the cruellest, most painful and surreal days any of us here in Gaza have experienced. For more than 10 months, it has felt like we are reliving the same day over and over – except each day the heartache intensifies. It is always a bomb, a bullet, a shelling, a wave of fright. As the death toll soars, it feels like we are getting further away from negotiations to end this hell.

Israel has killed at least 40,005 Palestinians in Gaza. The death toll could be actually closer to 186,000, say researchers writing in the medical journal The Lancet, with countless bodies still trapped under bombed buildings and unknown numbers of people dying from starvation, lack of medical care and collapses in public infrastructure.

Those of us living through this hell already know that the death toll is higher. There are houses near us that have been bombed with people inside but until now, no one has been able to clear away the rubble.

‘Where can we go?’

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

To me, home was not just my house. It was the feeling of safety within the warmth of its walls, seeing my dresses, the comfort of my pillow. It was the sound of my mother moving around inside. It was the mouthwatering smell of my favourite dish, musakhan – sumac-spiced roast chicken with caramelised onion flatbread – filling up the house.

Home was outside, too. It was my university and the road leading to it, the smells of spices in the air, the markets, the yellow lights during the evenings of Ramadan, and the sounds of people praying together and reciting the Quran.

In displacement, home has come to mean something else. It is now a place where we can find walls, a bathroom, water, a mattress to lie on and a blanket for cover. At one time, I thought that covering my face with a blanket could somehow protect me during an attack. I don’t believe that any more.

The day everything changed

I will never forget October 7. 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, of finishing my Bachelor’s in literature and completing my Master’s abroad. I would return to Gaza and educate young people about our history and heritage. I also wanted to continue painting and eventually open an art gallery. However, my biggest dream was to see my country free.

Early on that Saturday, about 6am, there was a barrage of rockets across the skies of north Gaza. My younger sister was preparing to go to high school. Little did we know that it would be the last day of school – not just for her, but for everyone, that both students and institutions would be obliterated.

The sound of explosions woke me. 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 it made us potentially vulnerable in a land invasion. Together, they agreed that it would be best to move to my brother’s house – in central Gaza, and further away from the border.

Today, we still remain displaced in Deir el-Balah.

Simple pleasures

War makes us miss the simple – even banal – pleasures of daily life.

I miss our garden back home, with its fragrant roses and olive, palm and orange trees. Most of all I miss the lemon trees – the delicate scent of their white blossoms. On summer evenings, my family would spend time among the trees, and in winters, we would build a fire to stay warm.

I miss Gaza City’s youthful cafes and bustling streets – its life – even when there was little water or no power due to constant electricity cuts.

And I loved climbing up on our rooftop with a coffee and vanilla cupcakes to read.

When we left on October 7, I didn’t spend much time thinking about what to take. I brought a copy of Wuthering Heights, my pyjamas and makeup – everyday items to help make displacement feel a tiny bit normal.

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

I haven’t eaten cake since. All we have is dry bread and whatever canned food we manage to buy.

Ten months later

Deir el-Balah, where my brother and mother’s family live, is a place my family visited for weekends and summer holidays. I used to complain that I couldn’t sleep anywhere except in my bed in our home. I haven’t seen that bed for 10 months.

Now, I have a mattress on the floor with my mother, father and younger sister in the same room. The mattress is good and clean, and my family is close and together. But I have insomnia and anxiety. While trying to sleep, I look out the broken window, searching for a star amid warplanes ripping through the sky, and I worry about rockets falling on us.

Deir el-Balah was a quiet, small and clean city, with lands full of olive and palm trees. Today, the city suffocates. Because services have broken down, rubbish continues to accumulate. Palm trees, now covered in dirt and debris, are hardly recognisable. The sky is an ashen grey – air pollution from the bombardment – and the ground is soaked in sewage water. The air is putrid, like the inside of a dumpster. It smells like everything but home.

When we first moved to my brother’s house, thinking that the war wouldn’t last long, I kept up with my studies – I didn’t want to fall behind. When I found out that my university had been bombed, I lost hope for a while before finding new ways to spend my time. These days, I’m learning Italian and writing poetry. When I feel anxious I like to clean the house. Those pyjamas I brought from home are now so worn they’re used as kitchen rags.

Daily life consists of treks to fetch water and trying to find power sources to charge phones and lights. Our neighbour has solar panels and a well powered by a generator. We can charge our phones there and sometimes take a shower. Each time I take a shower, I feel grateful, thinking of my people suffering from a lack of privacy, water and hygiene products. It is a constant struggle to secure access to communication, and basic needs like shampoo and soap, dishwashing liquid, laundry detergent and razors.

People have nowhere to go. Children beg for money and elderly people sit by themselves in the middle of the street.

Many people, whether in the streets or in their tents, are in constant prayer. In Gaza, we pray a lot – for an end to the sorrow, darkness and pain. We have lost so much and so many people. Many of my cousins and other family members are now gone.

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

Home, then and now

My mental and physical health has deteriorated, and that’s been difficult. I have nightmares and stomach issues from the polluted water and canned food. The pain is bad, and it’s a real struggle to find medicine or painkillers – when some are available, they are very expensive.

When Israel began targeting Gaza, it was also doing something more sinister: It was attempting to destroy our connections to each other. It made us feel anxious and angry, desperate and mentally drained.

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 neighbours. We tried to make the most of things, like baking cakes on fires, and having fun when it was possible. And when it wasn’t possible, we held each other through the bad and the worst.

We still had journeys we hoped to fulfil. We were still writing our stories.

In the beginning, we watched the news with hope. Somehow, despite the horror, we had faith that there was no way the global community would allow things to develop the way they did. I don’t think any of us have that kind of hope any more.

What we do have left are the hopes of what we want to do when all of this is over.

The other day, I was sitting on the balcony of my brother’s place with my mother. As she held me in her arms, I talked to her about my dreams. Within minutes, a nearby apartment was bombed. We were at first overwhelmed by the deafening explosion, and then by the sounds of walls caving in. A father and his two children were killed.

The sound of a home filled with memories and the people who live there collapsing upon itself is one I do not wish upon anyone.

These days, I feel that 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.

I would gladly die, if it would help my country. But I want to do so many things, see, and learn. I want to meet more people, fall in love and have a family of my own. And I want to see my home, in whatever state it exists, once more.