Return to Gaza, an unknown person in our city | The Partial Concern – Palestine

Northern Gaza, Palestine – We didn’t have a home to return to. The city of Gaza we knew was gone. But we came back.

Why? Perhaps it was Nostalgia for our former lives – before October 2023. Perhaps the emotions we left before the warmest of the south.

Any way, the truth greeted was harsh and unusual. I realized how a woman I was in my hometown, where I had spent about 30 years of my life.

I wandered on the streets I no longer see, I am lost among the biggest destruction. I struggled to find my way from my family’s damaged family in the house of my groom, which is, or I am standing, with the deepest scars of war. I walked on a single road, I entered in another – without ordinary signs of leading me.

No communication networks, no internet, no electricity, no transportation – not water. My return to return turned a bad night – corruption and destruction were wherever I turned.

Nub, wandering with remains spent homes of families. My goal was to get to where my language was. I already know that no more – I saw pictures.

But standing there, in front of the debris of a seven-story building when I had been in many hipes and family, I was silent.

Homesy Handed Home

One of my neighbors, and returned from the south, came. We took turns with a smile as we stared at the religion of our life. He was lucky than me – he was able to distribute a few things, some old clothes.

But I found nothing. My apartment was located in the first floor, buried under the layouts over the rubbish.

Partner, Photographer Abdelhakim Aburash, arrived. I told him that I didn’t understand, not any emotions. It was not that I was not sad, but instead I had come into an emotional disability situation – anesthesia that prioritized, maybe my mind to welcome protecting me.

On the other hand, my husband, was angry, or quiet.

We decided to walk again, as I turned my turned home, deep pain pulled my heart. There is no shelter now, there is no place to call ours.

But why we stopped us down and knew that we were alone – every city stopped.

I survived at least, and we are all safe, “I’m trying to comfort her 15 months old – I reminded him:” We are better than those who have lost their family, better than little girls. is the legs. Our children are safe, safe. Rebuilding Homes. “

We say it often in Gaza, and it is true. But it doesn’t remove the weight of a person’s home.

‘Be careful for water’

Unable to move continuously, we made our way to my own field. We were told it was standing but as we approached the destruction scenes, we couldn’t see the building.

That’s where we would live right now, in what was left: two rooms, bathroom and kitchen.

But again, there was no cry for panic here. Survival requires adaptable, no matter what we had. That was a war rule.

Inside, we received similarities. The brother of my husband had finished before us, cleansed a little. Only his warning: “Wat water. No one left everywhere.”

That one sentence is enough to remove the last eunt from me. I felt under pressure, nausea and tiredness. I don’t think anything but water – just water.

The sewage system was destroyed. The walls were opened by sewing. The ground and the first floors were completely affected. Life here is barren and innocent.

And what made it very bad became an updated look of looking at the balcony because the eye was seen – very large, very powerful to allow painful escape.

My friend who was in the north had repeatedly told me: “The north is completely destroyed. I cannot be hopeless.” I now believe him.

My mother’s clothes

The next morning, I went home to my parent at Sheekh Rwan, I was added because I knew me, our neighbors were already sending photos – the house was still there.

The Israelite armies were staying in this moment before he burned fire as he went away.

We even found a video in the Etktok, a soldier who appeared in her eating McDonald’s sandwich in the newly married room while looking at neighboring houses burning.

I wandered around the house, frustrated by the reduced memory of the redemption to be ash and debris. One room only waited in the fire: my parents’s bedroom. The fire didn’t touch.

I entered the mother’s room. I lost my mom on May 7, during the war.

Her clothes are still suspended in the bedroom, dressed in embroidered clothing. His property, his Quran, his prayer seat – everything remained, coated only in the heavy dust and spilled glass.

Everything is put in comparison to the moment when I am standing before the mother’s late lump, tears as good as I found her clothes, brushing dust.

“This is a dress dressed in Brother Mohammed,” I whispered. “And this is … Moataz’s wedding.”

I grabbed my phone and called my sister, in the south, my voice trembling between Sobs and Happiness: “I got the clothes that were broken. I found her clothes! They didn’t burn!”

He thanked her joyfully, announcing that she would run northward the next day to see Mother’s property.

This is the life that has become – the debris everywhere, and yet the episode, any string, or previously connected.

Imagine, then, what it means to find the only visible place of our precious loss – my dear mother.

Not Gaza Unknown

Two days later, after cleaning waste and memories, I forced to go over my grief.

I decided to visit the Baptist Hospital in the morning, hoping to meet with her colleners, and I found a sense of feeling and trying to work on new issues.

I’ve been a long time, I couldn’t find transportation. My clothing was quickly consolidated in the dust – everything left behind the buildings were made of Israelite bombs.

Every passing person was like, combined gray layers from head to toes, eyelashes weighed with rubbish.

Arrive, people were cleaning their homes. The stones that lie down from the floor are broken down without men and women drawing waste, dust into the air, and swallowing all roads.

The woman stopped me and asked her if she could recover her phone’s debt. I was hesitant, and I faint: “I’m sorry, aunt I am young here … I don’t know.” I don’t know. “

I went, and I was shocked with my answer. My understanding was accepted – this was no longer the ignorance of ignorance.

I used to know the heart with heart. All roads – Al-Jalaa, Shashi Camp, Sheikh Rwen, Remal, Al-Jundi. I was aware of all the back streets, all the market, every famous baking, every restaurant, every café. I knew exactly where to find the best cakes, the best clothes, branches of telecom, Internet service providers.

But now?

Now, no signs left. No road signs. No reference points. Is this story too?

I continued walking on the al-Jalaa road, fighting to put the past in ruins. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I took a picture to learn later, to compare myself with what was.

North and South

Finally, I found a car to imitate my way. The driver touched me to sit next to a woman in the front seat. Back, some five women and the child dissolve together.

On the way, the driver picked up another passenger, arranging for him in the last spark.

Every time it sounds like a mistake – a big program in my mind.

At the hospital, my memories are restored to the Deir El-balced hospital where hospital has only journalists – only electronic electricity and Internet since the war.

At this time, face was unique, and journalists from the north experienced a very different battle in the road we had in the south.

I reluctantly moved at the meetings, whenever we met a reporter, I arranged for Abdelhakim: “Is this person from the north? Or they were in the south?”

It was a real question. Conversations, getting used to it, the weight of words – all feel different, depending on where we endured the war.

Yes, there was death and destruction in south, Israel did not save Rafah, Deir El-balah or Khan Yanis. But it was different in Gaza City and north of Gaza – people here endured at some pain.

Whenever I saw a partner from the south, my face bright and stopped talking, joining, sharing the most impossible journey in Al-Rashid Road, about the moment where they see their families.

At that time, I really understood: We felt strangers in my hometown.

The struggle was one

The battle of Israel only restrained Gaza’s place but also with people inside it. Build a new identity under fire, they separate us in ways that we may not think.

The painful, painful truth – we lost Gaza, and again and again, its people, their spirit, ourselves.

For 15 months, we thought that much night was the breakdown – that was exile was a glorious conclusion. People cry at home, but only dream.

But now, the return seems so unkind. The south, we were called “fotted”. In the north, we are now in the Northern One “now”, who kept suspecting to go when arriving emigration orders.

Sometimes, we regret it. But what do we have to choose?

And now, we treat a silent shy – a little sign, which is not seen in our hearts from the day we are abandoning, and that we see the eyes of those who live.

I thought that the day we returned north would notice the end of the war but, I wandered on the rocky roads, and I saw:

I look forward to putting the last time, so we can start again – even if the beginning is painful. But there is no time. No closure. It won’t end.

I’m dragging, dust sticks to my clothes I don’t bother. Tears mix with rubbish, and I won’t get it away.

The fact is that we are left in open place last, the winner: we are lost. We do not have the capacity left for rebuilding. No first power again.

We lost this city, my friends.

The Gaza we loved and we knew that Dead – defeated, separated and alone.

But despite all, we are still alive inside us.