Reflections on Gaza: A Journey of Exile and Identity

Gaza is a unique place that feels both timeless and closed off. It’s a vibrant world filled with familiar faces and overwhelming experiences, where the pace of life can feel like a race or a standstill. Growing up, I found myself nestled in conversations about family, relationships, and everyday struggles, often pulled into discussions by my aunts, cousins, and friends’ mothers.

My teacher dubbed me “the sharpened tongue,” not due to rudeness but as a nod to my resilience in refusing to conform to a quieter, more docile demeanor. Occasionally, I would revert to childhood joys, like stitching tiny outfits for my Barbies with my cousins. Yet, for the most part, I existed in a space that precariously balanced the innocence of childhood and the understanding of adult complexities.

The Allure of Freedom

On Fridays, my family would embark on a journey from our neighborhood in as-Sudaniya along the coastal al-Rashid Street to Rafah, a drive that took about an hour. Those days transformed Gaza from a confined space into a genuine home. At 12, my siblings and I reminisced about past antics—my brother’s humorous mispronunciations and the minor mishaps that had become cherished inside jokes. We stayed close to our parents, sharing laughter before wandering to the beach, enveloped by the scents of spiced fish and the cool sea breeze comforting us in a way that felt so familiar.

Although these may not be grand memories, they are deeply my own. From a young age, I harbored the knowledge that I would eventually leave. I recall a family gathering where every girl my age was asked about her study plans. When my turn came, I declared, “Study in Gaza? I’ll be going abroad to become a journalist like my father.” Responses varied—some were encouraging while others merely laughed. Yet, I could already sense the world beyond calling my name.

The Beginning of a New Chapter

When I left Gaza at 17 in 2019 to pursue international relations, it marked my first solo flight. As I crossed the Rafah border, sandwiched between my father and my older brother, Omar, I committed their faces to memory. Entering Egypt signaled a series of long waits and security checks, filled with the anxiety of uncertainty—wondering if I would proceed onward or be sent back home.

Cairo Airport, Istanbul, and finally Cyprus—each location felt like an important threshold. At every stop, I was subject to additional searches due to my black passport. Questions about my solitary travels often felt more like tests that determined whether I was worthy of a life beyond the boundaries of my known world.

A New Reality

On my first night in Cyprus, sleep enveloped me like never before. However, when I awoke to an unexpected noise, I instinctively panicked, thinking it was an explosion. Rushing into the hallway, I discovered it was merely suitcase wheels scraping against the floor. It was then that reality set in: You’re not in Gaza anymore.

The next morning, I wandered the dorms in search of a mini market, but I ended up lost in the winding corridors, overwhelmed by unfamiliarity and silence—an unsettling contrast to the noise I was used to.

My first true interactions occurred during my English prep course at the university, in a small classroom populated by classmates from Cyprus, Turkiye, Lebanon, Morocco, and Libya. We exchanged accents and words while my teacher praised my quick grasp of new vocabulary. Nonetheless, when I introduced myself as being from Palestine, it often led to confusion; some mistook it for “Pakistan” or struggled to place it on the map. I would routinely show pictures of my homeland, bridging the gap in understanding.

The Weight of Exile

My time spent in Cyprus slowly created a sense of distance from Gaza, turning it into a vibrant yet distant memory. Yet, everything changed on October 7, 2023, when that distance vanished. During the outbreak of war, I worked remotely alongside my father, a journalist in Gaza, translating and monitoring his messages to ensure he was safe. Fear enveloped me as I isolated myself for months, too terrified to sleep. When I finally drifted off, the devastating news came that my cousin Ahmed had been killed.

Ahmed, who was known as Saddam because of his birth coinciding with Scud missile attacks on Israel, would affectionately call me “ya koshieh,” a teasing term that meant “dark-skinned one.” The weight of guilt hit me hard; I irrationally believed my awareness could have saved him. The loss did not end there—we also mourned my uncle Iyad and his only daughter, alongside my uncle Nael and his wife, Salwa. In just one night, a branch of our family tree was erased.

This painful experience forced me to confront how much of Gaza I had brought with me into this new life.

Healing and New Beginnings

I began therapy in Cyprus, transitioning from talk sessions to trauma-focused treatment after being diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Now, I feel more grounded, though I understand that trauma doesn’t simply vanish—it shifts, softens, and can reignite. The goal isn’t to erase the past but rather to find ways to live with it.

I often say my roots are in Palestine, but Cyprus shaped who I am. Gaza gifted me with awareness while exile provided the language to articulate it. My experiences in Egypt and Oman have continued to deepen the same unresolved inquiry: How do you carry a home that seems perpetually fractured?

This question has become a catalyst in my journey over the past two years, as I work to rebuild my life and pursue a master’s degree in diplomacy. I aspire to understand the global decisions that molded my childhood and the power dynamics that profoundly influenced my narrative.

To many, “Gaza” is synonymous with destruction. Yet, the people residing there are no different from anyone else, save for the enormity of struggles shaped by forces well outside their control. My story is just one of millions, but I hope it resonates with others and illuminates the truth: Gaza is more than just a headline; it’s a tapestry of lives, and every one of its people deserves the right to exist fully and peacefully.

Conclusion

Gaza represents a complex mix of nostalgia, trauma, and a longing for a brighter future. As I navigate my journey, I carry the essence of my homeland within me, striving for understanding and healing amidst the turmoil.

• Gaza is a deeply layered world that holds both memories and struggles.
• Exile has reshaped my understanding of identity and home.
• The trauma of conflict continues to influence lives even far from home.
• Every narrative from Gaza deserves recognition beyond mere headlines.