By Noor Alyacoubi
Gaza is powerful, and its people are resilient. The spirit of this place cannot be broken, no matter how deep the wounds run.
Every time I step onto the street, a faint voice inside my head whispers, “This isn’t real. It’s just a nightmare.”
A year has passed since the war began, and despite the ongoing devastation, I have clung to the hope that once the violence ends, life will return to the way it was. I imagine the martyred coming back to life, the wounded healed, and shattered homes restored.
I picture Gaza taking a free, deep breath once again, embracing us all like a mother reunited with her children after a long separation.
Deep down, I know it’s impossible. Yet, I cannot let go of the notion that Gaza, as I once knew it, will rise from the rubble. Am I hallucinating? Maybe. But I am also desperate, having endured over 365 soul-crushing days, surrounded by destruction so vast it wipes away every trace of beauty, tradition, and even religion. Schools, hospitals, mosques, and gardens—all obliterated.
Walking the same streets I’ve known all my life, I no longer recognize them. Is it normal to feel lost in the city where I was born and raised? I wonder.
I have never been to any other place but Gaza. It is where I lived, separated from the outside world, which always feels like a myth to me that I only glimpse on TV. It is where I belong and it is where I love to be.
Gaza Feels Drained
I love it though it forced me to endure unspeakable horrors throughout my life.
In 2008, when I was only 10 years old, I witnessed my first Israeli war. Then came the aggressions in 2012, 2014, and 2021. In 2022, I lived through another one. And since 2023, I’ve been enduring the deadliest assault of all.
After each war, Gaza managed to rebuild itself, though the devastation seemed overwhelming. But this time, it feels different.
The signs of recovery are missing, and the spirit that once filled the streets is fading. Gaza feels drained, as though it has exhausted its will to rise again. And my soul carries scars shaped by the terror I’ve faced, the destruction of places I once cherished, and the loss of loved ones.
Loss doesn’t always mean death. It can mean the agonizing reality of being separated from family and friends by just a few kilometers, interrupted by checkpoints and Israeli soldiers. Though close, we remain out of reach.
I Miss Gaza
In the years leading up to October 7, Gaza had begun to experience an unexpected transformation. Malls were opening, modern restaurants and cafés were popping up, and international brands were making their way here.
There were times when I would walk through the streets and feel, if only for a moment, that I was in New York, though I had never been there— a testament to the sense of progress that had begun to take root.
I miss those days when Gaza felt vivid and warm. I miss strolling through Al-Remal’s bustling streets after long days of work, cooling off with an iced drink in the summer, or picking up groceries on the walk home.
I miss seeing people’s smiley faces, and their stylish outfits, and hearing the high-pitched giggles that once filled the air. Now, the streets are silent, the buildings scarred by war, and people’s faces are pale and thin.
I miss the sight of children in their school uniforms, carrying heavy backpacks, and the noise they used to make playing football in the neighborhood. Those simple scenes are gone.
Since the war began, children with sunburned skin and tattered clothes are often seen carrying bottles of water or collecting wood for their families, who rely on wood fires for cooking as gas supplies to northern Gaza remain cut off.
I miss the streets of Al-Naser and Al-Wehda—just east of Shifaa Hospital—where shopkeepers used to greet passersby with smiles, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from roadside bakeries. Now, approaching these areas fills me with sorrow, seeing burned homes where families were forcibly evacuated and hearing the silence that replaced the once-dynamic life of the streets.
I miss the days when, if I felt lonely, I could call my mother and say, “Mama, I’ll be there in less than ten minutes”—the time it took to reach my family’s home by car. But now, there is no family waiting for me and no home left to visit. In April, the Israeli military reduced my extended family’s four-story building to rubble.
I used to imagine walking with my daughter, Lya, when she got older, buying her toys and clothes, taking her out for a treat. Lya is walking now, but there are no streets to stroll along, no shops open, and no friends to meet.
The Sea, I Long to See It
For so long, Gaza has been called an open-air prison, with nearly two million people confined by the Israeli blockade and severe restrictions on movement. Despite the hardships and despair, the sea has always been a source of relief for Gazans—a place where, even briefly, we could forget our troubles and find some comfort.
Like many others, I have a special connection to Gaza’s sea. It’s been my go-to place for every occasion—whether in moments of happiness or sadness, whether to picnic with family and friends or simply to unwind alone. It was a place to seek refuge from the scorching heat in the summer or to embrace the chill during winter. But even this haven has been taken from us.
I vividly recall the times spent on the shores with my mother whenever we needed an escape from the daily routine. We would sip coffee and snack while gazing out at the water, letting the simple pleasure of the sea lift our spirits. Now, the sea feels farther away than ever, and I miss my mother, whom I last saw her was in October 2023, before she sought refuge in southern Gaza and then fled to Egypt.
The late nights at the shore, listening to the gentle rhythm of the waves and breathing in the salty air, are etched in my memory. I remember the joy in the faces of other Gazans—families laughing together, children splashing in the water, and the delicious aroma of food shared on the beach. The sea was a place where life seemed more vibrant, and ordinary moments became cherished memories.
The coastline has become a dangerous zone. Since October 2023, the Israeli military has controlled Al-Rasheed Street, stretching from the northernmost parts of Gaza City down to the heart of the Strip, near the central regions.
What was once a place of solace has turned into a zone of death, with snipers and soldiers patrolling the shores.
Now, no one dares to approach the sea. It has become too risky, with the threat of being targeted by Israeli snipers looming over anyone who ventures too close. What was once a symbol of freedom for Gazans is now a reminder of the war’s relentless reach, leaving us yearning for the sea that we can no longer safely enjoy.
What was once a symbol of good memories and joy is now a reminder of the insane and inhumane massacres Israel committed along its shores. I will never forget the bloody massacre at Al-Nabulsi roundabout that took the lives of over 100 civilians who endangered their lives for the sake of a bag of flour to feed their starved children.
I Still Love Gaza
Despite all this, my love for Gaza endures, perhaps even stronger. At times, I question if this love is real or is born from sympathy—a sympathy for a city that has lost its meaning, abandoned by the world, and left to stand alone amidst the rubble.
But I know this: Gaza is powerful, and its people are resilient. The spirit of this place cannot be broken, no matter how deep the wounds run. Beneath the scars, there is still life. We remember what Gaza was and dream of what it could be again.
I believe Gaza will rise from this darkness. It will rebuild, healing itself along the way. One day, it will feel warm and cozy again, like a home welcoming us back. The streets will echo with laughter, the sea will become a place of comfort once more, and life will reclaim the beauty that was taken away.
Until that day comes, we hold onto hope as fragile as it may seem. We dream of a Gaza free to breathe, to rebuild not just its structures, but the soul of its people. I know this: Gaza will emerge from the rubble, not just as a place of memories, but as a home that embraces us once more—like a mother who never gave up on her children.
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https://www.palestinechronicle.com/this-isnt-real-its-just-a-nightmare-gaza-my-haven-my-loss/