Where the Key Lost It’s Home

April 2024

Six months have passed, and not a single corner of my life has been left untouched. After the struggle of being displaced from the sanctuary I now stammer to describe; after being stripped of my life in all its forms; the martyrdom of my loved ones; the knitting of my brows, now accustomed to anger and rejection; the relentless sound of warplanes; the sky reddening at night and the earth trembling with every bombardment; the energy drained in quarrels with fellow exiles; and the countless days overflowing with my prayers to Allah, asking for this agony to end—just end.

And yet, nothing is new. I remain in the same small burlap-fenced square, beneath Allah’s blue heaven and the endless hum of the drone—Zzzzzzzz. I gaze at the roof of this nylon room, which filled with the threads of spiderwebs stubbornly settling there despite my mother's and my attempts to disturb their peace. Then I drift into my thoughts, accompanied by an inner voice, wishing I were like these spiders—clinging to my home, refusing to surrender.

My wandering mind struggles with the stigma that says whoever leaves their country alone has betrayed it. And yet, the same mind that weaves for me a vision of Gaza, which had embraced us since childhood, and now waves to us from behind the dozens of ruins, sending a fragile light of hope from the depth of the darkness.

The earth turns, the clock ticks, and the days pass. Yet this dragon's fire devours our little city, leaving behind only heaps of ash. And I am still here, in the same spot for a year and three months, away from my beloved ones—half of them left this world, and the other half exiled from me. I do not dream of impossible things, just give me back my homeland, my features, my sanctuary, and the self I used to be.

January 2025

After a year and three months, we took our first steps back to Gaza. Despite the grey that shrouded the city, I saw our memories pulse with all colors, like movies replayed with sound, image, and the feeling that will never be repeated: Safety.

At the start of this year, they had decided to allow us to return on foot to our shattered, beloved land. The moment we had longed for—over a year and three months—had finally arrived! I had almost lost hope of ever seeing its alleys again, but Alhamdulillah, we were granted the chance to enter it once more, to be held by our homes, even if they were only rubble.

Here I stand today, on the threshold of what was once called "home." Where the walls that endured all the years now bear the scars of shrapnel, caving untold stories—just as they are etched into our souls. The air is heavy, laden with the dust of memories and the undeniable scent of loss. I try to recognize the features of this place, but they are strange, like the face of an old friend worn by time, nearly unrecognizable. Every corner here that once buzzed with life is now drowned in deafening silence, and every step I take on this rubble is a reverse journey through time. As I search for the echo of a laugh, the remnants of a dream, or even the shadow of a peace that once lived here before being swallowed by the grey light.

To be among those whose journey with nylon and canvas rooms and tents has ended, one must be deeply grateful. You are lucky, yet surrounded by anxiety. And even so, it is hard for someone who has always lived with fear to feel joy in tranquility, because at any moment, we could be displaced again—holding the key, reliving memories, waiting for the steps of return that may never come.