A Love Letter to Gaza: Reflections from Exile
Yasmin, the explosions are getting closer. It would help if you left now. The air is thick with smoke, and the ground shakes with each blast. Escape while you still can. This is no longer just a matter of dreams or opportunities, it’s a fight for survival. The danger is imminent, and every moment counts. You must run to save your life and the lives of your kids. Run before it’s too late.
These thoughts echoed in my mind when I decided to leave Gaza. I am a mother of twins and an English-to-Arabic translator who finds solace in writing. I have never traveled in my entire life. I celebrated my birthday outside Gaza for the first time at 30.
Gaza has shaped my existence—its warmth, contradictions, wounds, fleeting joys, challenges, achievements, and bittersweet memories.
I left Gaza City one week into the war after the Israeli army issued evacuation orders, instructing us to head south. Believing that we were coming back soon, I packed only a few essential documents and some pieces of clothing. Two months later, I discovered that our neighborhood was leveled to the ground, including my home and all of my belongings. Having lost everything that mattered, I decided to escape the horror of the war and leave the Gaza Strip with my family to Egypt. We crossed the border on April 15 with mixed emotions about leaving what was once a full life. Heading into the unknown while the lives we left behind fell apart was more devastating than I can describe.
I had always dreamed of leaving Gaza, feeling that the blockade and recurring escalations had deprived me of many opportunities and dreams. My father used to say, “Believe it or not, my dear, you’ll never find a place better than your homeland.”
As an average Gazan, I longed to travel the world, to see an airport and experience flying. I wondered what lay beyond the Rafah crossing and how life was on the other side. As a child, I dreamed of going to the cinema, building a snowman, and visiting a huge theme park, which I had only seen on TV. Growing up, I realized I yearned for a normal life that anyone would want. As time passed in Gaza, I wanted a life without the constant presence of drones. I have always asked myself what it would be like to have electricity 24/7. Despite these challenges, Gaza remains a place I realized that I deeply love.
In Egypt, life is normal. Everything I once wanted is available and easy to access. After seven long months of unbearable conditions, even the smallest things, like a hot shower or a warm meal, seem strange. I watched my children’s faces light up with joy as they tasted chocolate milk and fresh fruits for the first time in months. But I cannot fully enjoy the luxury of having good food while my people struggle for it. The cold breeze of air conditioning feels perverse. It is uneasy to be detached from the life I once lived in Gaza and start again.
We live not far from the Cairo airport. Even the sound of commercial airplanes feels scary and reminds us of the bombs. Once, I had a video call with my father, who is still in Gaza. I was surprised by the stable internet connection that allowed us to have a clear conversation. Although everything seemed perfect then, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. I knew I needed time to understand the sense of emptiness.
I then realized, belatedly, how such simple things are enough to make us happy. I have always taken them for granted, as it had never crossed my mind that I would lose them forever. Buying coffee with freshly ground beans from a little café in the bustling streets of my hometown, listening to my favorite songs in the morning, or even sitting by the sea meditating on the beauty of the blue sky and the beach—these are now things I can only experience as memories.
When I sip coffee today, I either remember those beautiful, simple days, or I remember the frantic days I spent fleeing from one place to another. I don’t know which memories are more painful to relive. I’ve taken to only drinking over-sweetened tea in exile, a way of leaving space for my body to react differently, to avoid being reminded of something traumatic or something familiar that is no longer within reach. But try as I might, I keep remembering, and the knowledge that the rest of my family is still in Gaza, still struggling, continues to intrude upon my mornings.
I miss Gaza’s food, especially the falafel, unlike any other with its unique blend of spices and its crispy golden exterior. I long for the simplicity of life, the way mornings start with the hustle and bustle of crowded streets, the familiar sound of honking horns, the vibrant market scenes. The short, bumpy roads that weave through the city lined with small shops and stalls.
On Fridays, I spent uncounted hours with my children building sandcastles by the beach. I watched the sunset when the sky turned into shades of orange showing the beauty of our sea. The smell of barbecued corn by the beach and the view of kites in the sky were the simplest joy a person could have, but it was worth every moment. We used to gather at a small table on the beach and talk about life. My kids would keep on giggling around us, playing hide-and-seek. It’s odd that I now avoid sunsets. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Though Gaza has often brought sorrow and decay, its enduring hope is evident everywhere. Residents clean the streets amidst the rubble of their destroyed neighborhoods and paint their damaged homes in efforts to rebuild. This unwavering spirit of regeneration and adaptation manifests Gaza’s ability to rise like a Phoenix from the ashes.
Gaza is more than a location; it is a living memory and a profound expression of love and belonging. Even in exile, my heart remains with Gaza.
Will I ever see you again, my dear? Will you ever heal?
I’m so sorry that I took you for granted, my beloved Gaza. I misjudged you. Only now do I realize how much I miss you. I have never felt safe since leaving you. I belong to you and only you.
Yasmin Abusayma is a writer and translator from Gaza.
—Mondoweiss, September 14, 2024
https://mondoweiss.net/2024/09/a-love-letter-to-gaza-reflections-from-exile/