My grandfather Hamdi was just eight years old when his family fled Bir al-Sabaa, a city in southern Palestine once known for its fertile land and agricultural life. His father, Abdelraouf, was a farmer who owned nearly 1,000 dunams of land, grew wheat and sold the crop to traders in Gaza. The family had a happy and comfortable life.
In October 1948, several months after European Zionist forces announced the creation of Israel, Israeli troops attacked Bir al-Sabaa and forced thousands of Palestinians, including my grandfather’s family, to flee under threat of massacre.
“We fled Bir al-Sabaa when the militias arrived,” my grandfather often told me. “My father thought it was just temporary. We left our home, our land and our animals behind and thought we would return. But that never happened.”
Hamdi’s family fled on foot and in a horse-drawn cart. What they thought would be a few weeks of displacement turned into permanent exile. Like 700,000 other Palestinians, they were survivors of what we now call the Nakba.
Hamdi’s family found refuge in Gaza, where they stayed in emergency shelters and with extended family. Relatives helped them buy a small plot of land in the Tuffah district of Gaza, just 70 kilometers from their home in Bir al-Sabaa, which the Israelis renamed Beersheba. Hamdi’s family struggled to rebuild their lives.
Seventy-five years after my grandfather experienced painful displacement, grief and a struggle for survival, my family and I also fell victim to the Nakba.
At 4 a.m. on October 13, 2023, my mother’s phone rang. We all slept in a room in our house in the Remal neighborhood of Gaza City, trying to find solace in the relentless noise of drones and fighter jets overhead. The phone woke us all up.
It was a pre-recorded message from the Israeli military warning us that our home was in a danger zone and we were ordered to move south. Fear gripped us as we ran outside, only to see Israeli leaflets scattered everywhere with the same warning. We had no choice but to pack a few clothes and bedding and flee.
It wasn’t the first time we were forced to leave our home. Since I was 12, I have experienced the horror of the Israeli attacks on Gaza, which have repeatedly forced us to flee and live in fear and insecurity.
Since I was 12, I learned to recognize the distinct sounds of bombs, F-16 jets, Apache helicopters and drones. I know full well the horror they bring.
Previous displacements had been temporary, and we had hoped that this would be the case, just as my grandfather believed his family would eventually return.
But a return is currently not in sight. Our house was badly damaged by an Israeli tank. The upper floor burned down and an entire wall in the basement was missing. All of our belongings were destroyed.
The handbag with some clothes that I took with me on October 13th is all that remains of my possessions.
We headed to az-Zawayda in the central Gaza Strip to stay with relatives. Along the way we saw thousands of other Palestinians carrying bags of clothing and looking for safety.
From our makeshift shelter, I saw the pain of exile in the crowded corners of every room. We shared an apartment with 47 other people, with the terrible fear that nowhere was safe. We spent two months in this crowded apartment near Salah al-Din Street. Eventually, constant explosions forced us to move to another house in the area.
On January 5, the sharp cracks of sniper fire and gunfire intensified. Then came the thunderous blast of artillery and bombs. We gathered what little we had and fled to Deir el-Balah.
We had to live in an eight-person tent for three months before moving to a small, poorly insulated room on a friend’s property. We spend the winter here. The rain seeps through the nylon windows and the cold is unbearable, leaving us unable to sleep most nights.
We have struggled to secure the most basic needs – food and water. For the last two days we have had to survive on contaminated water and a single loaf of bread. Hunger has robbed us of our strength and hope.
I now understand the Nakba of 1948 in a way that I never have before. It is the story of my grandparents, repeated in our generation, but within the borders of Gaza. And to be honest, it feels even worse than the Nakba of 1948. The weapons used today are far more advanced and are causing unprecedented destruction and mass deaths and injuries – something my grandparents could never have imagined in 1948.
The pain is not just physical. It’s also psychological. Witnessing the unthinkable – the constant fear, the loss of loved ones, the fight for survival – has taken an enormous toll. On sleepless nights, we are haunted by the deafening roar of rockets and memories of dismembered bodies and destroyed houses. I look at the members of my family and see how much their faces have changed; Her hollow eyes and silent tears speak volumes. When I walk down the street, I see communities known for their generosity and solidarity being devastated by loss and destruction.
It is clear that Israel’s goal is to expel Palestinians from historic Palestine by any means possible. The fear of expulsion from Gaza is overwhelming. With homes reduced to rubble and entire neighborhoods wiped out, it seems as if our exile is imminent. I never imagined leaving my home, but after losing everything, Gaza no longer feels like a place to live – just a graveyard of despair and loss.
There is no Palestinian who is not affected by displacement and the fear of losing their homeland forever. The Nakba is truly the never-ending story of Palestine.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial stance of Al Jazeera.
