THAT night, the six of us, my entire family, slept close together in the living room. We chose to stay in one place so that if the inevitable happened, we would all face it together and no-one would be left behind.

The sounds of bombing shook the walls violently, and the night was pitch dark without electricity, internet, or any means of communication. Explosions were relentless, scattering in every direction, yet we had no idea where they were or whom they had struck.

We shivered in fear of waking up at any moment to the news that a loved one or a neighbour had been killed.

Driven by anxiety, I stood by the window to watch the direction of the next strike, when suddenly a missile landed, illuminating the entire sky with light resembling daylight amidst the darkness.

For a moment, I didn’t know whether a new dawn would break over us, or if this night would be our last. In those seconds, we bore witness to each other countless times, trying to stay composed from one breath to the next.

The bombing intensified, closing in on us until we could feel death surrounding us from every direction. I do not know how we managed to sleep that night, perhaps from sheer exhaustion after a long day spent huddled around the radio, listening to the news, searching for any information that might reassure our hearts.

The next morning, we awoke to a new shock: a policy of displacement was being imposed. Planes had dropped leaflets ordering residents to leave their homes and head to south Gaza.

Panic and fear quickly spread among the people, and neighbours and relatives began gathering whatever little belongings they could preparing to leave.

I watched them from my window, my heart breaking. The neighbourhood’s features had changed suddenly; everything around me was coated in ash, even the air carried a grey, oppressive hue from the bombardment and fear.

House by house, neighbour by neighbour, people departed for the south. With every step someone took, I felt the neighbourhood was losing its soul, a part of my world slipping away.

It wasn’t long before the neighbourhood was almost empty, yet a few families remained in the north. We comforted each other, refusing to consider leaving, clinging to our homes and land as if they were the last thread connecting us to life.

Many had already lost their homes, yet it did not drive them away; some set up tents amidst the rubble, others tried to repair what remained of their damaged walls, and some moved into houses left vacant by relatives or neighbours who had relocated south.

Staying in the north was an act of defiance and resilience, more than it was an easy choice.

But as days passed, then weeks, then months, life became increasingly suffocating. We entered a stage of true famine; no type of food was available, and some people resorted to eating animal feed, while others survived on water alone.

Deaths rose, especially among children, due to malnutrition, while the bombardment continued to draw closer from all sides, making the situation even harsher.

We moved from house to house, from one place to another, yet we remained in the northern area, determined to stay despite everything.

Every day, we said goodbye to young people from the neighbourhood who were killed in the bombings. Faces around us grew pale and wan, and our bodies weakened until there was almost no strength left in us.

We had the option to leave for the south, where food and basic necessities were relatively available, but we refused. We chose to stay, enduring hunger and fear, holding on to our land even if it meant facing more pain.

On January 28, 2025, a ceasefire was declared. It was a critical moment; we all anxiously and eagerly awaited the news: would the displaced residents of the north be allowed to return? What would the first meetings after such a long separation be like?

I imagined the faces of my friends who had fled to the south, wondering how I would embrace them when we met again, and whether words would ever be enough to make up for what we had lost. The deeper question lingered: how would the people of Gaza return to life? How would life begin anew after all the destruction the war had caused?

Gradually, answers began to appear in the streets. People came out to remove the rubble, gather stones, clear debris, and sprinkle water to calm the dust.

In the houses, families worked together to repair broken windows and doors, and children returned to play among the ruins, their laughter returning after a long absence.

Women baked bread on clay stoves and shared some food with neighbours. Small shops repaired the damage and reopened their doors, restaurants cleared the debris and rearranged their tables, and street vendors displayed what goods remained.

Those who had lost their homes set up tents over what remained of their houses or established small camps, while others returned to their damaged homes. Streets that had seemed empty came alive again with movement, and hesitant laughter began to ripple among the people.

Every scene of return, every reunion, was a silent declaration that Gaza, despite everything, was capable of starting anew.

After eight months, the occupation’s policy of displacement began once more. About a month ago, some news circulated suggesting that residents of the north might be forced to move south, but we did not believe it and tried to dismiss it as if denying the reality.

Yet the day finally came when the occupation ordered us to leave the north and head to the south, and the bombardment intensified more and more.

They tried every type of bombing on us; tons of explosives were dropped on the neighbourhoods, shaking the ground and rattling everything, while advanced robots detonated themselves, destroying more than four large buildings at once. Fear seeped into our hearts in a way we had never known before.

This time was unlike any previous one; the occupation had returned with all its force to compel people to flee once again, beginning a new battle of resilience and fear, and we were forced to face an inescapable reality.

We made the decision to leave. We did not want to abandon the area or relinquish our homes and land, but the bombardment had become unbearable. We lost many neighbours and friends who were killed in the attacks, and fear consumed our hearts without mercy. After moments of hesitation and confronting an unforgiving reality, we realised there was no choice left but to flee.

We began gathering the few belongings we had left, carefully choosing what we could carry on our harsh journey south, yet we were unable to take everything. Transport was unavailable, and even if it existed, the cost to move our belongings would have reached a thousand dollars due to the fuel shortage. All of this forced us to leave — not out of choice, but out of the harsh circumstances that compelled us to flee in order to save our lives.

Every step was accompanied by the fear of sudden explosions, the cries of children who did not understand why we were leaving so abruptly, and the tears of adults who had lost loved ones. In our final moments in the north, I took one last look at the place: the destroyed houses, the scattered rubble, and the faces of neighbours, some already gone and others on the brink of departure.

Tears dominated the scene, as a mixture of longing, fear, and shock filled the air before we set off on a journey whose end we did not know, carrying with us pain, memories, and a fragile hope of reaching safety.

We arrived in the south after an exhausting journey filled with fear and anxiety. There were no houses available for rent, and I could never have imagined that we would spend our time in a tent, but it was the only reality available to us. We set up our tent on a barren piece of land, among other tents belonging to displaced families like ours, the air heavy with the smell of dust and dirt.

The first day was difficult on every level; our bodies were exhausted from fatigue, and our minds were weighed down by fears and painful memories. We tried to organise our few belongings, but every movement felt heavy, and every decision came with hesitation and sorrow.

The children did not understand why we had left our homes so suddenly, and I watched their tired, worried faces, feeling the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. Every corner of the tent reminded me of what we had lost, and every distant explosion reminded us that safety was still far away.

The feeling on that first day was a mix of psychological exhaustion, shock, and longing for the life we had hoped to preserve. Yet, we tried to find a small space of hope in arranging the tent and creating some calm amid the chaos.

Displacement, fear, and loss taught us that life is not always as we imagine it, and that sometimes surviving means making harsh decisions we would never want to make. Despite all the pain, we learned that resilience is not merely waiting — it is an ongoing act; the ability to rebuild our lives no matter how destroyed our homes may be, and no matter how separated we are from our loved ones.

Today, as we try to restore a simple routine amid the tents and rubble, I realised that our true strength does not lie in houses or possessions, but in holding on to hope, in solidarity with those around us, and in the ability to keep going despite all that we have lost. Gaza, despite everything, continues to pulse with life, and we, alongside it, strive to rise day by day.