Here I am, standing in the middle of my room, painted in shades of pink. I share this space with my younger sister Layan,14, our single beds marking territory on opposite sides of the room. My corner is filled with books by Shakespeare and Emily Bronte, hers with colourful paints and artwork faded by the sun.

I find myself gathering pieces of my life, folding away the things I once believed would never leave my side.

My favourite green winter scarf, the one my mother gave me, is tucked inside my old backpack. Once it bulged with books from my English Literature classes at the Islamic University of Gaza; now it carries only what I can take with me.

In the background, the sound of Israeli artillery fire echoes through the air. Outside, the perpetual hum of drones buzzing never stops. Inside, I am trying to prepare myself physically, mentally, and emotionally to leave my childhood home. 

I look at my home in Gaza City’s Sheikh Radwan neighbourhood differently now. Despite the bomb damage, the shattered windows, the cracked walls, it feels like the most beautiful and comforting place in the world.

Just days ago, the Israeli media announced: “The soldiers are going to start evacuating 800,000 citizens on Sunday, August 24.” When we heard this, we felt ourselves shatter.

My city waits in uncertainty, while the Israeli media wages psychological warfare against us, fully aware of how deeply we are already hurting. 

In only a few days, we are expected to leave behind the city where we have survived, starved, loved, and laughed. Here we have smiled, and here we have cried.

My grandfather built our family house in 1977, when my father was just a year old. We all grew up in this home — my father and uncles were raised here and even got married here.

How could we simply say goodbye to a place that carried us through so much? It’s never let us feel defeated, it’s never let us down, when all the world has.

Weeks ago, the Israeli government approved a plan to occupy Gaza City, the last remaining stronghold of Hamas, so they say. 

Many, like me, search the streets for food supplies and safety, feeling the futility of words. Fear, helplessness, speechlessness, and pain flood our hearts and minds.

Our calls and messages revolve around how we will endure the coming displacement. We share the pain together, trying to stay strong for one another. We hold to one truth: that Allah sees us and understands us better than anyone else.

Between faith and fear

Yesterday, I called my maternal grandfather — he’s in his 70s, now displaced to the west of Gaza City. I asked him if he had a plan to evacuate, and I was stunned by his response. “My granddaughter,” he said firmly, “we didn’t leave when the first evacuation order came in October 2023, so why should we leave now?”

His words were steady, but they left me feeling even more confused. He is absolutely right, yet this time feels deeply different, more real.

If we choose to stay, we will almost certainly be attacked by Israeli soldiers filled with hate for us, the Palestinians of Gaza. 

Most of my friends and relatives feel the same way as my grandfather.

But my family sees things differently. They believe evacuation is necessary, driven by the memory of December 6, 2024, a day that changed everything.

Israeli tanks surrounded our home, and we witnessed the attack with our own eyes. Two of our neighbours were killed while out looking for water. Our family, all 32 of us – my aunts, uncles, and cousins included – crammed into the basement for safety. We stayed there for three days with no provisions, not even water. I still remember the parched delirium.

We know exactly what the Israeli siege means. That experience left deep scars, haunting my siblings and me for months. My mother, determined to protect us from reliving that suffering, insists we leave this time to Al-Zawaida, in central Gaza.

But it is not that easy.

Pieces of myself

I am not leaving behind objects or silly things. I am leaving behind pieces of myself: my memories, my primary school, my university, my books, my writing, my home.

Even in ruins full of rubble, I walk my city streets, taking photos of everything that might be erased by the hand of Israeli soldiers.

I do not know where we will flee, but I know who we are.

We are a people of deep roots, of educated families, of dignity, of maturity, and with unshakable faith in our land. 

I ask my friends abroad to remember me, my writing, and my testimony of this brutal war. My gut tells me I am living through something unimaginable, an unbearably awful reality.

Tears fill my eyes constantly; I cannot endure the grief in my heart, it is too much. 

The only thing awaiting us now is a tent —not a home, not a place to belong, only a canvas shelter that reduces our lives to exile.

Why must this happen while my room still stands, waiting for me to sit in it? Why tents? I do not want to leave. I don’t want a tent. I want my home and nothing more. 

Please, do not look away. Keep your eyes on Gaza. Choose to tell the truth. Don’t let a place that was once full of life, love, and hope be forgotten. Even amid the destruction, there is still a heartbeat here.