The genocide has made me feel like a stranger in my own motherland. Israel-Palestine conflict

I was born and raised in Bani Suheila, a town of 40,000 people in Gaza’s Khan Yunis Governorate. It was a place where everyone knew each other. We lived in a big house surrounded by my extended family and fields planted with olive and fruit trees. Our tight-knit community provides a sense of security and comfort.

Fifteen months of continuous war has destroyed this feeling of belonging. I and my family have been forcibly displaced many times before, and although we are still inside Gaza, inside Palestine, I still feel like a stranger.

In December 2023, we had to leave our home for the first time. We fled to the al-Mawasi area of ​​Khan Yunis, which Israel claimed was a “safe zone.” When we arrived it was complete chaos and we had to struggle to secure a small spot on the sand to pitch a tent.

We were surrounded by people we didn’t know. Palestinians from across Gaza had fled to the area. As I walked around the camp, I saw only unfamiliar faces. People looked at me with vague eyes 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 sad to see it turn into a displacement camp, where people were grieving the loss of their homes and loved ones.

By February we had to flee to Rafah. One million homeless people gathered in the southern city, after the Israeli occupation issued forced displacement orders for various parts of the Gaza Strip. We were among them.

Its streets and public spaces were filled with displaced people, setting up tents wherever they could find space. Still, the place felt like a desert to me: barren and inhospitable.

My family and I lived in constant misery in a tent, like other displaced persons. I wandered the streets of the city daily, hoping to find something to eat – if I could afford it. Often I would return empty handed.

Sometimes, I would meet someone I knew – a friend or relative – who would be followed by moments of joy followed by deep sadness. It was a joy to know that they were still alive, but it soon turned to sadness when they told me that someone else we knew had been martyred.

My friends or relatives would inevitably comment on my significant weight loss, my pale features, and my emaciated body. They often admitted that they did not recognize me at first glance.

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

The suffering of the displaced was continuous and unbearable. Nothing passed beyond this except news of a new forced displacement, which usually came in the form of leaflets dropped on us by Israeli warplanes. 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 carrying in a small bag our few possessions and the burden of what we had endured: hunger, fear, and the pain of losing loved ones.

We returned to Khan Yunis – the western part which Israel claimed was “secured” – but found the place destroyed and devoid of any sign of life. All roads, shops, educational institutions and residential buildings were reduced to debris.

We had to pitch our tent next to destroyed houses. I wandered the streets, staring in disbelief at the scale of destruction caused by the Israeli occupation. I no longer recognize the city where I often visited with my friends.

In August, for the first time since the war began, I managed to reach our neighborhood in Bani Suhaila, east of Khan Yunis city. I thought that the feelings of isolation would end here, but it did not happen.

I went among people I knew and those who knew me, but the strange looks persisted – not because they didn’t recognize me, but because I looked worse than they had ever seen me. They looked at me with surprise, as if I had become someone else. His gaze deepened my feelings of isolation, loneliness and loss.

I struggled to understand the destruction and disappearance of all the places and landmarks that once defined my hometown. The house where I grew up was destroyed in a massive fire caused by the shelling. Inside, it was filled with debris, our property turned into what looked like pieces of coal.

Today, after 15 months of war, we are still displaced. Wherever I go, people ask me, “Oh, displaced, where are you from?” Everyone looks at me strangely. I have lost everything, and I have only one thing left that I wanted to leave during this war: the feeling of isolation. I have become a stranger in my own motherland.

The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.