Surviving 2024 in Gaza | Israel-Palestine conflict

When I was a child, I dreamed of traveling the world, discovering new cultures and learning new things. I longed for a voyage of discovery. Living in Gaza felt like sitting in the stands, watching the world’s achievements – its development, progress and technological marvels – unfold from afar without being able to participate.

It was both a sanctuary and a cage—its regular rhythm comfortable but repetitive, its streets too familiar, its horizons too narrow for the aspirations I carried within me. I appreciated its warmth and closeness, but the pull of life beyond its borders was irresistible. I was ready to leave the moment the opportunity came.

This year, I took a trip, but not the one I had dreamed of. Instead of a trip of carefree exploration abroad, I found myself on a journey navigating a genocidal war and a struggle for survival in the narrow strip of Palestinian land I call home. Along the way, I learned a lot – about myself and my inner world.

The “journey” begins in January. While most people welcomed the New Year under a sky full of fireworks, songs and joy, my sky gave evacuation orders. Peeled cards fell on us bearing a message written in Arabic: “The camp of Nuseirat is too dangerous. Go south for your safety.”

I never thought that leaving home would be so difficult. I always thought of myself as someone who didn’t have a strong connection to home or homeland. But I was wrong. Leaving felt like leaving a part of my soul.

My family and I went to Rafah to stay with my aunt who gave us a warm welcome. Although I felt some comfort, in my mind, all I could think about was my home. So I said goodbye to February, the “month of love”, I felt incredibly homesick and realized how much I loved the house I grew up in.

In mid-February, the Israeli army withdrew from Nuseirat, and we soon returned home. It was one of the best moments of the war – and of my whole life – to find my house still intact. His front door was broken in, our belongings were stolen and debris from the bombing of our neighbor’s house had crashed inside. But he was still standing.

Even though destruction surrounded us, the rubble of our neighborhood still felt hotter than any safe place anywhere else in the world. For the first time in my life, I – the grandson of refugees – feel that I belong somewhere. My soul, my identity – they all belonged here.

The joy of being back home was soon overshadowed by the reality of war. March came and brought the holy month. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and togetherness. But this year, it was full of loss, separation and deprivation. There were no shared meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray in – just their falls.

Instead of tranquility, we had a relentless bombardment and terror. The bombs fell without warning, each explosion shattering any sense of security we might have had. We were being punished, treated like “human animals” – as their defense minister had said – for an unknown crime.

In April, Eid al-Fitr came and went, stripped of the joy that defines this beloved Muslim holiday. There was no children’s laughter to wake us up in the morning, no lively preparations or decorations to welcome the guests. Death was the only visitor to Palestinian homes in Gaza.

Then May came and with it an opportunity that I have been waiting for all my life. My family managed to raise enough money to pay an Egyptian company to help them leave Gaza. The process was riddled with uncertainty. There were rumors of scams, bribes and rejections.

The thought of escaping the unrelenting horror around me was intoxicating. I wanted freedom, but it came at a cost. I had to leave my entire family and my home with an uncertain prospect of ever returning.

To outsiders, this may seem like a simple choice: follow your dreams, take a chance and go! But for me, it was anything but easy.

One late afternoon, I was sitting with my sister Aya on our roof under a sky full of spy planes when I realized the true weight of my decision. Aya, just 15 years old, was full of energy and hope, her light brown eyes shining with ambition. “I want to learn programming like you,” he said excitedly. “I want to start my own business like you. I want to improve my English like you.”

How could I leave her and my family in the middle of the war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya stayed behind, struggling to eat, to sleep, to dream? How could I live a life elsewhere, knowing that my sister is having nightmares alone? How could I leave the same land that had made me who I am?

At that moment, I realized that my soul would never be free if I left Gaza now, if I left it as a place of ruin and ruin. I realized that my identity was tied to this place, to this struggle.

When I first told my family that I wanted to stay, they refused to accept. They insisted that I leave to survive, fearing for my safety. After a long back and forth, they eventually respected my decision, but their fear never completely went away.

A few days later, the Israeli army occupied the Rafah crossing, cutting off access to the outside world. I don’t regret my decision.

As the Israeli army continued to attack civilian areas throughout Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it was our turn to host relatives. We welcomed them not as displaced persons, but as our family. It is our duty to share and stand with each other in times of need. By fall, we were 30 people in our house.

During the summer, we began to feel the growing impact of the restrictions not only on humanitarian aid, but on all paid goods. Basic foods have disappeared from the markets. Aid organizations struggled to distribute food.

It was increasingly clear that those who survived the bombings would die a different and slower death by starvation. Food rationing became so severe that survival turned into a cruel competition. Life felt more like a jungle where only the strongest could survive.

In autumn, the famine was aggravated by rain and wind. We saw people forced to live in tents above poverty.

In November, a family tragedy occurred. My eight-year-old cousin Ahmad, who was like a little brother to me, fell from the third floor of our building and suffered a brain hemorrhage. The thought of losing him was overwhelming.

We took him to the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which was overcrowded with the wounded from the airstrikes and lacked the necessary equipment to perform brain scans. We tried going to two nearby hospitals, only to be told they couldn’t do anything for him. At night, we managed to find a medical center that could help, but it was far away. Sending him in an ambulance after dark was a huge risk – the vehicle could be targeted by a drone as so many had been. It was a choice between two deaths.

We decided to hang on to hope and sent Ahmad in the ambulance. Even in the darkest days, miracles happen. Ahmad arrived safely, underwent the necessary surgery and survived. He has started to recover although he still needs physical therapy which he cannot receive in Gaza.

As we worried and cared for Ahmad, December came. Soon we heard unexpected news from Syria: The brutal regime there had collapsed. I feel extremely happy.

In Gaza, we have been in solidarity with the Syrian people for a long time. We know the suffering of war and oppression, and we were truly happy to see the Syrian people finally free. His release was the first time we saw justice prevail, which gave us a sense of hope. He reminded us that one day, even we, could experience this kind of relief, in a liberated homeland where we no longer fear for our lives.

As the year drew to a close, we closely followed the news about the ceasefire talks, but 2024 has now ended without a moment of relief for us Palestinians.

This one-year journey has left its mark on me: streaks of white in my black hair, a fragile body, sick clothes, dark shadows under the eyes and a tired look that has lost its shine. But it’s not just my physical appearance that has changed. This year has burned my soul like fire.

But even the ashes bear seeds. I feel that something new has appeared in me – a determination to stay behind, to persevere, to change, to support all attempts to erase my memories, my identity, my people.

Death and destruction were unleashed, but they failed to take me away. If anything, I feel a deep desire to live – for many more years – in Gaza, in Palestine. I feel that we owe a duty to the martyrs to resist, to stay on this earth, to rebuild and to live. The responsibility to restore our country is on our shoulders.

I am no longer the man I once was, full of dreams of leaving Gaza and living an easy life far away. I will remain in my homeland, and I will continue to maintain the belief that peace, however fragile, can one day return to Gaza. I will continue to dream of a Palestine where its people can finally be free.

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