The genocide has left me feeling like a stranger in my own homeland

I was born and raised in Bani Suheila, a town of 40,000 people in the Khan Younis governorate of Gaza. It was a place where everyone knew each other. We lived in a large house surrounded by my extended family and fields planted with olive and fruit trees. Our tightknit community provided a sense of safety and comfort.

Fifteen months of relentless war have destroyed this sense of belonging. My family and I have been forcefully displaced several times already, and although we are still within Gaza, within Palestine, I feel like a stranger.

In December 2023, we had to leave our home for the first time. We fled to what Israel claimed was a “safe zone” in the al-Mawasi area of Khan Younis. There was complete disarray when we arrived, and we struggled to secure a small spot on the sand to pitch a tent.

We were surrounded by people we did not know. Palestinians from all over Gaza had fled to the area. As I wandered through the camp, I saw only unfamiliar faces. People looked at me with ambiguous gazes as if silently asking, “Who are you, stranger?”

Al-Mawasi used to be a beach where my friends and I loved to go to relax. It was distressing to see it transformed into a displacement camp filled with people grieving the loss of their homes and loved ones.

By February, we had to flee to Rafah. After the Israeli occupation issued forced displacement orders for various parts of the Gaza Strip, a million homeless people converged on the southern city. We were among them.

Its streets and public places were congested with displaced people setting up tents wherever they could find space. Yet, the place seemed like a desert to me: barren and inhospitable.

My family and I lived in a tent in constant misery like the rest of the displaced. I wandered daily through the city’s alleys, hoping to find food to buy – if I could afford it. Often, I returned empty-handed.

Occasionally, I encountered someone I knew – a friend or relative – which brought moments of joy followed by deep sadness. The joy came from discovering they were still alive, but it quickly turned to sorrow when they told me that someone else we knew had been martyred.

My friend or relative would inevitably comment on my significant weight loss, my pale features and my frail body. They often admitted they did not recognise me at first glance.

I would return to my tent with a tightness in my chest, overwhelmed by a sense of alienation. I was not only surrounded by strangers but also becoming a stranger to those who knew me.

The suffering of the displaced was continuous and unbearable. Nothing surpassed it except the news of a new forced displacement, which usually came in the form of leaflets dropped by Israeli warplanes over us. We hurried to gather our belongings, knowing that these warplanes would soon return – not with more leaflets, but with more bombs.

In April, the Israelis dropped leaflets informing us that we were being forced to leave Rafah. We fled with a small bag carrying the few possessions we had and the burden of all we had endured: hunger, fear and the pain of losing loved ones.

We returned to Khan Younis – to the western part, which Israel claimed was “safe” – only to find the place destroyed and devoid of any signs of life. All the roads, shops, educational institutions and residential buildings had been turned into rubble.

We had to pitch our tent next to destroyed homes. I wandered the streets, staring in disbelief at the scale of destruction left by the Israeli occupation. I no longer recognised the city I used to visit often with my friends.

In August, for the first time since the war began, I managed to reach our neighbourhood in Bani Suheila, east of Khan Younis city. I thought the feelings of alienation would end there, but they did not.

I walked among people I knew and who knew me, but the strange looks persisted – not because they did not recognise me but because I appeared far worse than they had ever seen me. They looked at me in astonishment, as if I had become someone else. Their gazes only deepened my feelings of alienation, loneliness and loss.

I struggled to comprehend the destruction and disappearance of all the places and landmarks that once defined my hometown. The house I grew up in had been reduced to ashes as a result of a massive fire caused by shelling. Inside, it was filled with rubble, our possessions turned into something resembling pieces of coal.

Today, after 15 months of war, we are still displaced. Everywhere I go, people ask me, “Oh, displaced one, where are you from?” Everyone looks at me with a strange gaze. I have lost everything, and all I am left with is the one thing I had wished to shed throughout this war: the feeling of alienation. I have become a stranger in my own homeland.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.

Source