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In Gaza, October was supposed to be the month of falling leaves and the sweet scent of olive harvests—the symbol of our steadfastness. Instead, it became a reminder of our crumbling buildings, our shattered souls, and bodies weary from the weight of displacement.

When borders close and refuge seems unattainable, the struggle for survival becomes all-consuming. Families are torn from their roots, forced to leave behind not just their homes but the memories and histories that shape their lives. Each step taken in search of safety is laden with the heaviness of grief and longing for a place to call home.

We have been forced to leave our homes several times before this war. I’ve had to move nine times in Gaza City, each time uprooted by the fear of soldiers ordering us south. Like many others, my family and I had dismissed the thought of any further displacement southward, that is until Israel bombed our house and demolished the entire surrounding area. Now, for the third time we’re having to stay in Khan Yunis, though this time I found myself moving between places that felt increasingly foreign.

If I had known how long our forced departure was going to last, I would have inhaled as much air as possible from my home in Gaza City, to keep some of it with me a little longer.

The difference a year makes

As the sun rose over Gaza this October, I think about how the once-familiar sounds of the morning have morphed into a symphony of chaos. Before this past year, the season felt alive with the promise of autumn. We used to awaken to the soft melodies of birds chirping, their songs a beautiful reminder of life’s simple joys. We would hear the gentle rustle of leaves, and the distant laughter of children. We would savour our coffee while listening to Fairouz, her haunting voice filling the air with a bittersweet nostalgia.

Alas, now our mornings begin with the jarring blare of alarms that signal the start of another day filled with rockets. Even the noisy buzz of cockroaches, once an annoyance, would be a welcomed distraction from the incessant drone hovering over us.

Today, we’re still drinking the coffee as it carries us following difficult nights. It too, resists. Though we no longer sip it slowly, and all we hear is news of more bloodshed as we curse the state of the world.

Our balconies, once a refuge, offered a wide view of the horizon as we watched the sunset. We’d observe the sea continuing its rhythmic dance along the shores of Gaza, its waves whisper tales of resilience. Now the skyline, tinged with hues of amber and gold, offers fleeting glimpses of tranquillity amid the carnage. In the quiet lull between airstrikes, the call to prayer echoes through the streets, a solemn reminder of the faith that sustains us through our darkest hours.

Indeed, everything changed on 7 October 2023. The night before, we’d all slept thinking about our exams, jobs, and daily worries. Then, suddenly, the alarms were not coming from our clocks. Exams have become a distant stress as schools and universities have all been suspended (many of the buildings entirely destroyed), gunfire erupts everywhere, and we live with Al Jazeera news on red alert.

All the many plans we’d all had before that date have been forever changed.

Resilience

Displacement is a profound sorrow, a gnawing emptiness that nothing else can fill. It is difficult to fully describe the feeling you get from seeing your city streets stained with blood, the remains of its inhabitants scattered across the rubble. It weighs heavy on the heart to hear the screams, the cries, and the wails of children and women.

Yet, amidst the colossal quantities of rubble and haunting loss, we still seek solace in the sky’s vastness and the resilience of flowers that have dared to bloom amid the ruins and devastation.

We often wonder how Gaza’s sky bears witness to both nature’s infinite beauty, and the roar of warplanes. Mahmoud Darwish once asked, "Where do we go after the last borders? Where do the birds fly after the last sky? Where do plants sleep after the last air?" This question resonates deeply in these turbulent times.

But the people of Gaza are still resilient despite the recurring forced movement.

We do wonder, though, where it is we’re expected to end up given Israel’s occupation has besieged us by closing all the borders and the crossing. As we navigate a reality where safety is elusive and uncertainty reigns, we are also grappling with many other questions that echo in the silence of our displacement. In the absence of defined boundaries, we find comfort in the memories of places once cherished, that are now mere shadows in our minds.

Enduring spirit

Whilst each step forward amidst this war feels heavy with the weight of loss, it also holds the possibility of new beginnings. After all, no matter what happens, the seasons will change. Another October will follow.

The birds still sing, despite their home becoming a battlefield, and having had to adapt to the shifting skies. They too will have to seek refuge in unfamiliar realms, transcending the limits imposed by borders. They will migrate as they have always done, against all the odds.

Just like the people of Gaza, the birds cling to life amidst devastation. They teach us that existence is about more than survival; it is about finding ways to thrive, even when the air is thin and the ground is uncertain. There is a shared struggle amongst all the living things here, each of us are simply searching for a place to belong.

As October returned once again, it stands as a testament to our struggles and our hope. It is a month not only of falling leaves but of our enduring spirit—one that clings to memories, dreams, and the unwavering beauty of Gaza’s sea and sky.

Just as leaves surrender to the winds, Palestinians have faced numerous challenges and hardships over the years. Yet, like the trees that stand tall and blossom again even in winter, their resilience persists. Certainly, the renewal that autumn promises reminds us that whilst the past is important, as the people of Gaza we must also look forward to a future where our dreams can flourish once more.

Huda Skaik is an English literature student, writer and a videoÌýmaker.ÌýShe dreams of a future as a professor, professional poet, and writer. She believes in the power of storytelling and pens words that resonate with the spirit of Palestinians. She seeks to illuminate the essence of Gaza, sharing its profound meaning with the world. Amidst the turmoil of conflict, writing is her solace. It fills her days with purpose and meaning. In the corridors of IUG’s English Department, and driven by a profound love for poetry and stories, she learns not just about literature but life itself.

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