I am living my Nakba. Opinion
My grandfather, Hamdi, was only eight years old when his family fled Bir al-Sabah, a town in southern Palestine once known for its fertile land and agricultural life. His father, Abdelraouf, was a farmer who owned about 1,000 dunams of land and cultivated wheat, and sold his crop to traders in Gaza. The life of the family was happy and comfortable.
In October 1948, several months after the European-Zionist forces announced the creation of Israel, Israeli troops attacked Bir al-Sabah, forcing thousands of Palestinians, including my grandfather’s family, to flee under threat of genocide .
My grandfather often told me, “We fled Bir al-Sabah when the militias arrived.” “My father thought it would only be temporary. We left our homes, land and animals behind, thinking we would return. But that never happened.”
Hamdi’s family fled on foot and by horse-cart. What they thought would be a few weeks’ displacement turned into permanent exile. Like 700,000 other Palestinians, he was a survivor of what we now call the Nakba.
Hamdi’s family found refuge in Gaza, where they lived in temporary shelters and with extended family. Relatives helped him buy a small plot of land in the Tufah neighborhood of Gaza, just 70 km (40 mi) from his home in Bir al-Sabah, which the Israelis named Beersheba. Hamdi’s family struggled to rebuild their lives.
Seventy-five years after my grandfather experienced the traumatic displacement, grief and struggle to survive, I and my family also became victims of the Nakba.
On October 13, 2023, I got a call from my mother at 4 am. We were all sleeping in a room in our house in the Ramel neighborhood of Gaza City, trying to find comfort from the constant sound of drones and warplanes overhead. The phone woke us all up.
It was a pre-recorded message from the Israeli military warning us that our home was in the danger zone, and that we were being ordered to move south. Fear gripped us as we ran outside, only to find Israeli leaflets scattered everywhere with the same warning. We had no option but to pack some clothes and some bedding and run away.
This was not the first time we were forced to leave our home. Since I was 12 years old, I have experienced the horror of Israeli attacks on Gaza, which have forced us to flee again and again and live in fear and uncertainty.
Since I was 12 years old, I have learned to recognize the different sounds of bombs, F-16 jets, Apache helicopters and drones. I know intimately the terror they bring.
The previous displacement was temporary, and we hoped this one would be too – just as my grandfather believed his family would eventually return.
But now there seems to be no possibility of a comeback. Our house was badly damaged by an Israeli tank. The upper floor has been burnt and the entire wall of the lower floor is missing. All our belongings were destroyed.
The handbag containing some clothes which I carried on October 13th is all that remains of my property.
We headed to Az-Zawayda in the central Gaza Strip to stay with relatives. Along the way, we saw thousands of other Palestinians dragging bags of clothes and seeking safety.
From our temporary shelter, I saw the pain of exile in the crowded corners of every room. We shared a flat with 47 other people, bound by this nagging fear that nowhere was safe. We spent two months in that crowded flat near Salah al-Din Street. Ultimately, the continuous explosions forced us to relocate to another house in the area.
On January 5, sniper fire and the sound of bullets became louder. Then there was a massive explosion of artillery and bombs. We gathered whatever we had and fled towards Deir al-Balah.
We were forced to live in an eight-person tent for three months before moving into a small, poorly insulated room on land owned by a friend. This is where we are spending the winter. Rain water seeps through the nylon windows, and the cold is unbearable, leaving us sleepless most nights.
We have struggled to secure the most basic needs – food and water. For the last two days, we were forced to survive on contaminated water and a loaf of bread. Hunger has sapped our strength and hope.
I now understand the Nakba of 1948 in a way I never did before. This is the story of my grandparents being repeated in our generation, but within the borders of Gaza. And frankly, it seems worse than the Nakba of 1948. The weapons used today are far more advanced, causing unprecedented destruction and mass death and injury – something my grandparents could never have imagined in 1948.
The pain is not just physical. It is also psychological. Witnessing the unimaginable – constant fear, loss of loved ones, struggles for basic survival – has taken a heavy toll. The deafening roar of rockets and the memories of mutilated bodies and ruined houses haunt us during sleepless nights. I look at my family members and see how much their faces have changed; His hollow eyes and silent tears say a lot. When I walk down the street, I see communities known for their generosity and togetherness shattered by loss and destruction.
It is clear that Israel’s goal is to drive the Palestinians out of historical Palestine by any means necessary. The fear of being expelled from Gaza is tremendous. With homes reduced to rubble and entire neighborhoods destroyed, it feels as if our exile may be imminent. I never thought about leaving my home, but after losing everything, Gaza is no longer a place to live – only a graveyard of despair and loss.
There is no Palestinian who has not been affected by displacement, by the fear of losing their homeland forever. The Nakba is truly the never-ending story of Palestine.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
