There’s much discussion about a potential Gaza ceasefire before US President-Elect Donald Trump’s inauguration on January 20, 2025. I cling to the hope that it’s finally ending — maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. But even if the war stops, life as we knew it feels irretrievable.
I’ve lost so much: people I loved, my work, and the places where I once felt that I belonged. The streets I walk are now unrecognizable, filled with rubble and haunted by memories of those who are gone. What’s left doesn’t feel like home anymore. When the killing ends, leaving Gaza may be the only path remaining for many of us.
Decades of cumulative suffering — 57 years of Israeli military occupation and 17 years of a suffocating siege — have extinguished any belief in me that this reality might one day change. Life here has long been a constant struggle marked by financial, political, and security instability. Basic necessities like food, medicine, and clean water have been scarce for years, while Israel has carried out countless attacks on this small, densely populated territory. The toll, particularly on children, has been immense, with trauma seeping into everyday lives.
Yet, despite these harsh realities throughout the years, a sense of hope had remained embedded in Gaza’s identity. We believed things could one day improve. Life was far from perfect, but it was, in its own way, livable.
Now the life we once considered difficult feels like a privilege.
Lifelines destroyed
Before October 7, 2023, my life was filled with aspirations and dreams. I had earned a master’s degree in comparative literature from the Doha Institute for Graduate Studies in Qatar in May 2023 and had returned home with a clear purpose: to teach and contribute to my community.
In spite of the challenges, I held on to the hope that collective effort and determination could build a better future in Gaza. While repeated Israeli escalations were a reality, I believed I could endure them as I had before. Finding a job wasn’t easy because of high unemployment, but in September 2023, I had finally secured a teaching position at a small educational center. I felt grateful to live in a beautiful home in Gaza City, surrounded by people I loved.
We had learned to navigate hardships like limited electricity, scarce clean water, and restricted opportunities. Compared to the devastation we face today, those struggles seem almost manageable.
Israel’s actions today seem designed to force Gazans to leave — not necessarily all to Egypt’s Sinai desert, as was their initial plan, but to wherever they can go. While this displacement is framed as “voluntary,” the reality is far from it. Israel is systematically making Gaza unlivable, leaving many with no choice but to flee. Gaza’s devastation is all-encompassing, affecting every facet of life.
I remember Gaza as a place full of life, rich in fertile land and crops. We planted everything — tomatoes, olives, oranges — and the fields were always alive with something in bloom. Trees lined the roads, food was affordable, and there was the belief that, no matter how hard life became, the land would provide for us. Now, over 65% of Gaza’s farmlands have been destroyed, crops are gone, and the soil is poisoned. Farmers are left without seeds, tools, or water. Even if the war ended tomorrow, Gaza would struggle to feed itself.
Water is also nearly non-existent. Bombings have crippled the infrastructure, leaving most without clean drinking water. Wells are damaged, desalination plants barely function, and sewage floods fields, spreading disease. Healthcare has completely broken down, as bombed hospitals and clinics have left the sick and injured with barely any access to care.
Education was always very important in Gaza. Even amidst all the hardships, schools were everywhere, and we deeply valued learning. The literacy rate here is incredibly high, standing at almost 98%. But the education system has now also collapsed. Over 625,000 children have lost an entire school year, with 93% of school buildings damaged. The few that remain standing now serve as overcrowded shelters, making learning impossible.
Gaza’s economy is in ruins — businesses, factories, and markets have been wiped out. The United Nations estimated that damage to Gaza’s infrastructure was worth over $18.5 billion as of January 2024, almost a year ago. There is no foundation left to rebuild on.
Gaza is shrinking — not just physically, as the Israeli army currently controls large areas in the Philadelphi and Netzarim corridors and northern Gaza, but also in the very spaces where life can thrive. Over 215,000 housing units have been destroyed. Remaining shelters are overcrowded and unsafe, offering little protection to the families inside.
An endless struggle with the idea of leaving
I am currently in northern Gaza, having been displaced three times during the war in search of a relatively safer place. Every time I have returned to my home, I have found it more devastated than before, making the thought of rebuilding seem increasingly unimaginable.
The process of rebuilding Gaza will be painfully slow and heavily reliant on international aid. How long can we continue to depend on the mercy of other countries? Even with external support, the scale of destruction may take decades to recover from at best — or 350 years at worst. The infrastructure that once sustained our lives lies in ruins, and with Israel controlling the movement of goods and people, recovery feels uncertain at best. It’s hard to believe that the same power responsible for Gaza’s devastation would allow it to rebuild.
Conversations with friends often circle back to the same conclusion: most of us dream of leaving Gaza — not because we want to abandon our homeland, but because we feel that we have no choice. There is no future here, no safety, no stability, no opportunities. Leaving isn’t about where we’ll go; it’s about escaping an existence that has become unlivable.
This is not a decision we make easily. For many, it feels like a quiet betrayal, as if walking away from Gaza was like walking away from a piece of ourselves. But how do you stay when the weight of loss grows heavier each day, and the scars deepen with every passing moment?
The daily reality of life in Gaza makes this decision feel even more pressing. For more than a year, people here have endured a life stripped of dignity. We have been displaced countless times, faced famine, and carried out draining survival tasks that feel like they belong to another era. We carry heavy containers of water, search for anything that might catch fire to cook food, and wash clothes and dishes by hand because there’s no electricity. Many of us are living in tents made of old fabric that offer no protection from either the heat or the rain. Most of our time is consumed by tasks that others complete with a click of a button. This constant battle for basic survival drains us, making it hard to imagine how much longer we must withstand such living conditions.
A broken anchor
Yet, despite this despair, not everyone shares the dream of leaving. Some, especially the older generation, insist on staying, even if it means enduring the unbearable.
“Where would I go?” my dad asked me. “No one welcomes us anywhere else.” For them, staying is not just a choice but a refusal to give up their connection to Gaza. It’s not just about fear of the unknown; it’s about belonging. Outside Gaza, they fear the alienation of trying to rebuild lives in a world that views them as unwelcome strangers. For them, Gaza remains their anchor, even if it is a broken one.
My father often reminds me that I am young enough to get a fresh start elsewhere. But for him, at almost 60 years old, the thought of building a life somewhere else feels almost impossible. His hope, like that of so many others, is that one day things will improve — that maybe this place they call home will rise from the ashes and offer some safety.
Despite our desperate grip on hope, Gaza is slipping further away from the place we once knew. It is becoming a shadow of its former self. Even if we are given the chance to rebuild from the rubble, we must face the painful truth that the Gaza we remember may never return.
A very sad story. Is the WB at risk too?
Hamas has been adamant on a permanent ceasefire. Sheik Yassin suggested a Hudna 20 years back, a 40 to 50 year stand down “to allow matters to sort themselves out”.
Saeb Erekat’s plan B was equal citizenship.
A college classmate was born in Nazi-occupied Poland, in 1943, to parents who were “hiding in the open,” pretending not to be Jewish. When they thought someone had realized that they were Jewish, they would go somewhere else and change their names.
After the war they left Poland; it wasn’t safe. They went to France, and then to the United States, fearing that the Soviet Union would invade western Europe, which she says was their only false positive, adding, “Of course, there were no false negatives.”
In 1948 they could go somewhere else. Today, where can Gazans go?