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Since the first day that Israel’s war on Gaza began, my family made the difficult decision to leave our home in the Jawazat district, as our neighbourhood has been consistently targeted. We sought refuge in my grandmother's house – she had tragically passed away there just two months prior. We packed essentials like food, clothes, important documents, and identification cards, thinking we would only be away for a few weeks at most. However, as many are now aware, the situation quickly escalated beyond our expectations.

My grandmother’s house was in the heart of the Rimal neighbourhood in Gaza City, close to Al-Jundi Al-Majhoul Park which was once a vibrant area that’s now been reduced to rubble.

Just three days into the war the electricity was cut off, and it has not been restored since.

Very quickly, supplies of gas, food, and essential goods also dwindled. Vegetables, fruits, chickens, and snacks disappeared from the supermarket shelves. Indeed, as the economic situation in Gaza worsened, life became increasingly difficult for everyone.

Unimaginable catastrophe

I vividly remember those initial days, when men, women, and children lined up for long hours to get bread and water. My brother would queue for a loaf of bread from the morning and still be waiting by the end of the day.

Men would pray together for the end of the war and for patience in the face of overwhelming loss and pain. We would sit together, listening to the radio broadcasts from journalists like Wael Dahdouh, Ismail al-Ghoul, and Anas al-Sharif who were reporting live from the frontlines, giving us a glimpse of the horrors unfolding around us.

As night fell, the skies were lit by the random flashes of Israeli searchlights. We all slept in one room, hoping that if we were to die, we would die together. The nights were terrifying, we’d hear the bombs going off, ambulance sirens, and screams. I could feel the earth shake with every Israeli missile, it was as though my heart was being torn from my chest.

We heard the buzzing of drones drilling into our brains, the sound of missiles, artillery shells, and F-16 fighter jets. We also heard the ambulances carrying the injured and martyred. The only thing that calmed my anxiety was the presence of my family.

In the early weeks of the war, the western part of Gaza City – including areas like Rimal, Al Shataa, and the vicinity of Al Shifa Hospital and Al-Quds Hospital – was heavily targeted. Despite warnings for hospitals to evacuate, doctors chose to stay with their patients. The attacks were indiscriminate, and devastating.

Amidst all of this, I often found solace in my grandmother’s balcony where I would sit reading books and writing in my journal as the sun set, trying to find beauty amidst the brutality of war. But even those brief moments of calm were interrupted by the deafening sound of attacks.

Things took a bitter turn when mosques, bakeries, churches, schools, universities, and hospitals were bombed. The atrocities felt unbelievable, especially after Baptist Hospital (Al Ahli) was bombed – a place we thought was a refuge, not a site for genocide.

False evacuation orders

In the first days of Israel’s war, rumours spread about an evacuation order in Rimal, which drove many Palestinians to flee from the area. As a consequence, my family also moved to my other grandmother’s house in east Gaza. However, a few days later when it became clear that the evacuation order had been a false rumour spread to instil panic among the residents, we returned to Rimal.

By the second week of the war, the Israeli military dropped leaflets urging residents of Gaza City to head south, toward Wadi Gaza. But we remained resolute, unwilling to abandon our homes and land.

Then, in November 2023, Israeli occupation forces launched a full-scale in the early hours, with no prior warning. We narrowly escaped under the sounds of nearby artillery fire, and sought refuge with a cousin in western Gaza.

The next day, we walked for hours on foot, carrying heavy bags and passing through the Old City and Al-Zaytoun neighbourhoods, where the homes of relatives stood. We stayed there with them for a month.

During the brief ceasefire that same month, my father and brother returned to our home in Rimal to assess the damage. They found that the Israeli military was stationed in our house, they left behind remnants of food and supplies. The destruction was huge. My grandmother’s house was totally destroyed.

Then in December, east Gaza was invaded, particularly the Shuja'iyya and Al-Zaytoun areas, while we were at my uncle’s house. We were trapped there for a week. Eventually, we decided to return to Rimal despite the danger, because we understood that nowhere was really safe.

Always displaced

For me, the first few months of the war defined by displacement, moving from house to house, neighbourhood to neighbourhood. December then marked the end of our displacement in Gaza City. We returned to our house on foot, under the fire of drones, artillery, and sniper bullets.

A week after returning home, our extended family—my grandfather, grandmother, uncles, and aunts—fled to join us. We were surviving on one meal a day: tea in the morning and rice in the evening, trying to keep the gas going and coping with the food shortages.

I would often go with my father to the market near Al-Shifa Hospital and see the Hebrew that was written on the walls by the Israeli military who had also raised their flag. The path was paved with destroyed and damaged buildings.

December was also the month when famine spread in the north of Gaza. Flour and canned foods were scarce, and many basic items had disappeared from the supermarket shelves. We could only eat rice but it was without yogurt or salad to make it easier to swallow. When it was possible, we would buy and store food for the coming months (despite the high prices), as it was not clear how long this genocide would last.

We would go to sleep early around 6pm, in complete darkness.

By January 2024, the Israeli military withdrew from the areas surrounding my grandmother's and uncles’ homes. They returned to what was left of their houses, but the devastation was beyond anything we could have imagined.

However, by the end of the month, Israeli forces once again launched an invasion of Rimal and the Jawazat area, encircling us with tanks. We were besieged for nine days, and on February 6, they stormed our house, bombed the area, and forced us to flee once again. This time it was to the south under the cover of night, and only after we endured hours of interrogation in the freezing cold.

We fled on foot for seven hours, journeying to Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp in the central Gaza Strip. The military had declared it a "safe area," though we knew better than to trust that label.

Life in the south is so harsh. I have been tasting the bitterness of displacement in the tents. The cold of winter gnaws at our bones as we huddle together, constantly reminded of our position.

The words "displaced," "tent," "no signal," "evacuation," "safe area," "Netsarim," "Philadelphi," "Rafah," "Deir," "The firewood," "Sweet water," "Salty water," "Takiya," "Mawasi," and "aid" echo every day, summarising the ugliness of the conditions forced upon us.

This genocidal war shattered our lives—our once-bright futures now reduced to pale shadows. It has stolen our dreams, our joy, our homes, and our loved ones.

Walking through the streets of displacement, I find myself questioning how we arrived here. How did we become strangers in our own land? Even the Nakba was not as cruel as the brutality we now face. The separation barrier of Netzarim, the constant bombings, the endless suffering—it has all pushed us to the edge, but our love for our homeland endures.

Despite the devastation, despite the pain, my love for Gaza remains steadfast. It is a love for the land, the people, the sea, the shops, the streets—everything that has been torn away from us.

Huda Skaik is an English literature student, a writer, and a video maker. She is a member of We Are Not Numbers, and she also a contributor for Electronic Intifada and WRMEA. She dreams of a future as a professor, professional poet, and writer.

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