My body is in Al-Mawasi, but my heart is left behind in northern Gaza

I write these lines carrying the weight of repeated displacement, the pain of an incomplete return, and the memory of a home whose joy we never fully reclaimed.

My journey from northern Gaza to Al-Mawasi in Khan Younis was not merely a geographical move, it was yet another uprooting, a fresh fracture in a soul already exhausted by bombardment and deprivation.

My body is here, among thousands of displaced people in Al-Mawasi, but my heart is still left behind in northern Gaza where our home stands, the one my eyes left in tears, fearing I may never see it again.

Once again, the occupation forced us to leave northern Gaza under relentless bombardment, threats, destruction, and sheer firepower, displacing us once more to Al-Mawasi – that overcrowded area the occupation claimed would provide water, medicine, and the necessities of human life.

But what we found on the ground was nothing but a ghost of life and yet another layer of prolonged suffering.

I hadn’t yet had the chance to rejoice in returning to what remained of our home, damaged by shelling. I hadn’t even known a moment of stability. My family and I were trying, together and with great effort, to clear the rubble, dust, and stones that filled the place.

Our hands became dirty and cracked, but we did it with love, and with deep attachment to our home. We made a vow to hold on until the very last breath, to cling to what remained of our walls, our roof, and our memories.

But the occupation, with all its cruelty and arrogance, did not allow us to stay.

‘Nights of terror’

We were trapped inside our homes in the Sheikh Radwan neighbourhood by the fire of quadcopter drones. We lived through nights of terror, nights in which sleep was impossible, surrounded by destruction in every direction.

We could no longer even open the door or look out the windows, fearing a sudden shell or a drone-fired bullet that could take our lives without warning.

The occupation didn’t stop there, it set up a crane east of our neighbourhood, targeting anyone who moved.

The scene felt like a giant closed trap surrounding us from all directions. Our lives became suffocating, every detail of our day under siege, as the occupation deliberately made living unbearable in order to force us into displacement.

The final days before we left the north felt like scenes from the Day of Judgment. Warnings blared through loudspeakers on drones, repeated shelling struck neighbouring homes, and thick smoke filled the air.

The smell of gunpowder and smoke still clings to my senses. My chest aches with every breath, as if I’m still inhaling air heavy with death.

We no longer had access to water or food. The markets shut down after Israeli quadcopter drones targeted street vendors with bombs during the night. We were left with no option but to flee south, hoping to escape certain death or a fatal injury that would leave us bleeding to the end.

‘I wished I hadn’t seen what I saw’

My greatest concern was my parents. They are elderly and suffer from chronic illnesses that make it difficult for them to endure long, exhausting journeys. The displacement from the north to the south took nearly six hours under the scorching, unforgiving sun.

I could see the signs of exhaustion on their faces, and it felt as if my heart was breaking from the helplessness of not being able to ease their burden.

On Al-Rasheed Street – the coastal road labeled by the occupation as a “safe route” for displacement – we witnessed a scene that will never leave my memory: the occupation forces bombed a tent right before our eyes, just off the roadside.

The scattered remains of the martyrs lay only metres away from us. My breath stopped in that moment, and I wished I hadn’t seen what I saw. To this day, I haven’t been able to sleep in peace, the image of those torn bodies haunts me every time I close my eyes.

As we left, I turned back to look at our home one last time.

It was a heavy farewell; my family and I sank into a silent grief. We weren’t just crying out of fear that it might be completely destroyed, but because we knew we were leaving behind our entire lives: childhood memories, moments of birth, our small joys and sorrows.

All of it condensed into a single home we may never see again. To be uprooted like this, to be forced to leave against your will, that is the deepest kind of pain.

We arrived in Al-Mawasi only to find the area overcrowded with displaced people. Thousands of families are crammed into a narrow space, and basic services are desperately scarce.

We couldn’t find clean drinking water. Many were forced to go down to the sea under the scorching sun to use highly saline water, despite the health risks. Most children, women, and the elderly have developed skin diseases and infections due to the contaminated water.

‘All of Gaza is dissolving before our eyes’

In Al-Mawasi, the night doesn’t feel like night, and the day doesn’t feel like day. We sleep in anxiety and wake up to even greater worry. News of the bombings in Gaza echoes everywhere, and reports of collapsing towers and homes reach us one after another.

It feels as though all of Gaza is dissolving before our eyes, and that we are living days suspended between life and death.

The tragedy doesn’t end with the lack of shelter, water, and food. My parents require constant medical attention due to their chronic illnesses, but here in Al-Mawasi, I can’t find medicine, doctors, or hospitals capable of treating them.

Every day, I face a new kind of anguish, the pain of being unable to secure even their most basic right: access to medical care.

Despite it all – despite the weight that crushes our spirits – there’s still a faint voice inside me that cries out for resilience. It tells me: “We will return to the north. We will rebuild it. Gaza will remain free and unbroken.”

Perhaps this voice sounds like defiance amidst all the destruction, but it is the only thing that gives me the strength to go on, to endure this harsh journey of displacement and loss.

Gaza today is no longer just a place on the map, it is a harsh human test, challenging our resilience and our determination to live.

My body is here in Al-Mawasi, exhausted and worn out, but my heart remains suspended there in the north, within the walls of the home we loved, among memories the occupation has not yet succeeded in bombing.