An extract from Who Will Tell My Story: A Gaza Diary – by an anonymous Gazan man in his thirties who has fled his home and is living in exile
A key with no door. A bakery with no bread. A city reduced to memory. In this unflinching first-person account, a Gazan man now living in Egypt shares a raw and poignant diary of displacement, identity and survival. Through the echoes of daily life lost – the scent of fresh falafel, the hum of a seaside café, the sound of children playing – he invites us to bear witness to the devastation of Gaza, and to the resilience of those who still carry its stories in their hearts…
I never understood the concept of the ‘Key of Return’, that rotten copper key. It keeps being passed from one Palestinian generation to the next, from those who were forced to leave their homes in 1948 to their children and then their grandchildren. Up until she died a couple of years ago, my friend’s grandmother, who was born, raised and started a family in Nazareth (spelled Al Nasrah in Arabic), had always wished to be buried in her homeland, to see her home one last time. It was a dream that never came true. In her final days, she was barely able to move, yet she always did her best to cook for her grandchildren, even though they were in their thirties by then. When I used to visit, she would be sitting in her chair, and she would always share stories of a place that was deeply engraved in her heart. I could see her eyes filled with joy when speaking of her own kitchen, the picnics they had and the different places she left behind.
It took me a very long time to understand how she felt – over thirty-five years, in fact, when I myself was forced to leave my house, my street, my city and my country. After several unbearable, agonising months of displacement in the south of Gaza, I made it to Egypt. My body left, but my heart and soul stayed. Each night in my rented apartment, I go to the closet, check for the pencil case hidden between the clothes and sheets, open it and find the key to my home. It is a key I know has no use since the doors were all broken by the heavy bombing, but each time I look at it I can remind myself that there is hope, a hope that one day I will return to my apartment, to my street, to my loved ones, to my Gaza.
When I was young, I was always eager to learn. The more I learned, the more I wish I hadn’t. This year taught me that the term ‘identity’ goes far beyond the classic definition of a set of qualities, beliefs, traits and appearances that characterise a person. The key to my apartment has become a part of my identity. The places I used to pass through every day in Gaza, on my way to work or to visit a friend, have become a part of who I am. The smells, the scenes, the sounds – they are all an essential part of me.
If you passed by the intersection of Al Nasser and Wehda Streets in Gaza City, you would be tempted by the beautiful smell of baking and bread coming from the Families Bakery. It was established in 1984, forty years ago, and started as a small shop, the owner working with his children to prepare the bread and delivering it using his own car. The bakery got bigger and they added more products, like croissants, sweets and cookies.
When on a diet, passing by the bakery was torture to me. I remember how I used to meet my friends there before heading on somewhere else – what better way to start any journey other than food? I remember my friend falling in love with their doughnuts, but for me it was the plain bread they made. All you needed was a sprinkle of thyme and some olive oil, and you had yourself the most delicious sandwich. The last I heard about the bakery was that the production lines and the solar energy panels were all bombed. The bakery stopped functioning. The last post on their Facebook page was published on 6 October 2023, wishing their customers a blessed Friday.
Next to the bakery is Abu Talal falafel shop, a small place with a big history. People would stand in long lines waiting for the hot falafel balls to come out of the oil. In my opinion, Abu Talal makes the best falafel, though there is a huge debate among Gazans about who is on top: is it Abu Talal or Al Sousi? Al Sousi falafel shop was established in 1975 in Al Rimal Street, which was developed over the years to become the ‘downtown of Gaza’, hosting some of the best shops and agencies. That small street shop remained over all those years, and you would see hundreds of people waiting to get their sandwiches before going to work or heading back to their homes after a long day.
During the war, I heard that Al Sousi got back to work in the south, selling falafel on a small street corner, hanging up a torn paper sign with the name of the shop. When I went there, I could see the happiness of the dozens of people, those who had money, who were able to buy falafel. I waited for ten minutes but I did not buy any, not because I knew I might have to wait for hours, since they were using wood to generate heat to fry the falafel, but simply because it was not the same place – not the same people, aroma or even feeling.
I was among the lucky ones who were able to leave Gaza and come to Egypt. To this day I am not sure why my life was more precious than all the children, women and men who were stuck in the area of death. I have the blessing to leave, to survive, to live. But am I really living? Egypt is beautiful, but Gazans are traumatised, afraid, worried of the unknown. Despite the millions of Egyptians and people of other nationalities I see, I can easily detect a fellow Gazan. It is not about their appearance nor the accent, but rather the pain that has been engraved in our souls, as if our energies attract each other. That sad, distracted, grieving look is one I never get wrong: it is another Gazan, someone else who lost everything, trying to keep their head above water, trying to live, unsure whether they will be able to.
I rarely go out. I am unable to. I cannot fathom the idea of being in a world that functions normally: employees going to their jobs, children holding their books, the sight of food everywhere. Oh God! There is food everywhere, there is enough food in this world for everyone, yet Gazans are left starving.
When I first arrived in Egypt, I ordered lots of food, and I kept eating even when I was not hungry. Then the opposite happened – I stopped eating. A friend of mine who made it to Egypt with her mother, leaving behind many family members in Gaza, told me that she feels so guilty that she only eats what they eat. If her family in Gaza manages to get a can of beans, she buys a can of beans in Egypt and eats it; if they find wheat and everyone gets half a loaf, she eats half a loaf. ‘How can I enjoy the food available here while my loved ones have no food? I cook for my mother, she is sick, but I never touch the food I make. If they eat, I eat. If they don’t, then I won’t.’
Another friend of mine once sent me a picture that she received from me years ago. It was of three plates of kunafa (a type of sweet). During the cold weather, I would order three plates and eat them, allowing myself the sugar rush. She told me that she dreams of going to Saqallah or Abu Al Sa’ oud, two famous sweet shops in Gaza, to eat some sweets. I replied to her with a photo of the lemon slush from Kazem Ice Cream Shop. I told her that one day we will have sweets together again.
One type of gathering that I don’t miss is farewells. Most of my friends who made it to Egypt and were able to get visas one way or another decided to leave the country.
‘There is nothing left. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even think of it, but I don’t want my children to face the same misery we have been through. We tried and tried, and you know that. You are the most positive person I have met in my life. Look at you, your energy is gone, your love for life is gone. I cannot jeopardise ruining the lives of my children. They are already scarred for life, but not any more.’ Those were the words of my friend, a mother of two beautiful children, aged ten and eight. She was able to escape Gaza with them to Egypt, but not her husband. During her stay in Egypt, her husband lost his dad and couldn’t bury him. She managed to get a visa to Australia at the beginning of the war. She waited for months before then making the tough decision to take her children and never look back.
At the end of each gathering I would hug the departing friend, cry and say the same sentence over and over: ‘May God rue the war that parted us.’ The last farewell gathering was at another friend’s rented apartment. He has managed to go to Spain, trying to secure a better life for his wife and daughter. After everyone left, I stayed with them. We spoke about how cruel our world is, how we are unable to understand how the world is sitting there, watching us from afar, witnessing our misery, yet doing nothing. ‘My father had two dreams: to build a house and to have his six children with their families around him, to see them around while he grows old.’ She told me how he would work day and night as a teacher and private tutor to collect money to provide a good life for them. ‘Between private lessons, he would lie on a wooden chair and take medicine for the agonising pain of his back. I would be heartbroken.’ Their house is gone, and her siblings are scattered all over the world. She believes they were smarter than her, understanding the reality that Gaza is not for Gazans. But she wanted to stay, and she did her best to, until she came to understand, too. ‘Our house is gone, and neither my parents nor my siblings are gathered in the same place. My father’s dream is gone.’
I am not sure if using the term ‘survived ‘ is accurate. I did not survive. My body, physically, to some extent, made it out of Gaza, but that does not mean that I am OK, it does not mean that I am fine, it does not mean that I am the same person as before the war started (especially given that, at the time of writing these words, the war is still ongoing).
Having panic attacks has become a normal experience that Gazans go through. I remember one time having a panic attack in the middle of an extremely busy road, with thousands of cars passing on both sides. My legs could not hold me. I simply fell on the pavement and cried for half an hour.
The shocking part is that panic attacks can happen while you are asleep. I remember another time waking up and suddenly, immediately after opening my eyes, I was thinking about what happened to us, the many challenges we were facing and what might happen in the future.
Will we ever go back to Gaza, after losing everything?
Are we going to stay our whole lives in Egypt, while Gaza is right next to us?
Will we be forced to move to a third country?
Do I need to start from scratch?
All my life savings are disappearing, gradually, so what will happen when I don’t have any money left?
I know that some of my friends died with their families, but . . . oh God, they actually died. I cannot see them any more. I am lying to myself, acting as if once the war ends, if it does, I will see them. They are dead. Will I ever be able to visit my parents’ graves? Are the graves still safe? Were they bombed?
I got out of bed and was terrified. I called a friend of mine, who told me that I was having another panic attack. We talked for an hour. Well, to be specific, I talked for an hour, and she played the role of therapist and calmed me down.
Even simple things can trigger a panic attack. When my friend travelled through two countries to spend a few days with me after almost two years of not having a vacation, she brought me several gifts. Upon arrival she wanted to surprise me, so she asked a friend of hers to call me and ask me to come down. When I did, I saw her with the two plants, one big and one small. We hugged and talked, yet my mind was on the plants: will I be able to take care of them? I have been struggling for over a year now to take care of myself and keep myself alive. Some days it is almost impossible to get out of bed and do normal things like eating – now I am responsible for another living thing? After the first day, I woke up and immediately went to the balcony to check on the plants. Watering them has become a big burden on me. The idea of forgetting to do so brings me stress.
I got in a car with my friend, and we began heading towards a restaurant one hour away from us. She was sure I was going to like it, but I couldn’t hold back my tears and began crying, and she started crying, too. She begged me to tell her what was going on. ‘Every now and then someone I know dies. Every day another dream ends. My soul is dead. We are ruined. I am not sure I can handle this any more. I am so tired and vulnerable and weak.’ I told her that I am not alive any more; my body is functioning, but I am dead inside. I told her that I don’t want to go out, I don’t want to meet new people, I haven’t been eating and I don’t want to go to a restaurant. She asked the driver to stop, and we got out of the car. We sat by the Nile, on the ground, and spoke for hours.
The Nile is beautiful, but I miss Gaza’s sea. In one of his poems, Mahmoud Darwish said:
Gaza is not the most beautiful city.
Its shore is not bluer than the shores of Arab cities.
Its oranges are not the most beautiful in the Mediterranean basin.
Gaza is not the richest city.
Its shore is definitely not the bluest, but it is my shore. The sand of the beach has witnessed the many walks I had with my friends, the talks where we expressed our innermost thoughts, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying. There was a cafe by the sea that my friends and I would meet at from time to time. We would bring our lunch with us, play games and take lots of photos. One time, during Ramadan, we decided to have iftar (breaking the fast) in that cafe, so we ordered food and gathered about one hour before Maghreb prayer. The food came too late, however, and half of the order was missing. I remember my Christian friends quickly got in the car and promised not to return without food. We were hungry, yet no one among those who had received their meals wanted to eat before the others. After forty minutes, our friends returned with victorious smiles, raising their hands to show us the food they brought. We welcomed them as heroes!
It is true that Gaza is not the most beautiful city, but it is the city where many confessed their love for the first time, where children enjoyed their childhood making and flying kites, where people started their businesses and experienced success. Gaza holds within its layers millions of stories that deserve to be told.
The Gaza I know has mosques and churches next to each other. The church of St Porphyrius, the oldest church in Gaza, shares a wall with a mosque. You would see the big cross of the church in line with the mosque’s minaret. The Gaza I know has many Muslims who celebrate Christmas and the lighting of the tree in the YMCA. The Gaza I know has witnessed Christians who would fast all Ramadan in solidarity with their Muslim friends, breaking their fasts together. During the horrible days of the war, the church hosted both Christians and Muslims who had fled their homes looking for safety. Unfortunately, St Porphyrius was bombed, and so was the oldest mosque in Gaza, Al Omari, which was built in the fifth century.
While walking with my friend, she told me how much she missed her Christmas tree back in her home in Gaza. I told her about my tree as well. We are both Muslims, but the tree was a cornerstone of our houses from December to February. Two days later, Google Photos shared with me an old selfie I had taken next to my tree. I sent it to my friend.
Google Photos has become, in one way or another, a history book. One of my friends used to get annoyed by how many photos I used to take. Now that everyone in our friendship group is in a different place (some still trapped in Gaza, a few in Egypt and the rest in different countries), he thanks me for taking and sending all these photos, because ‘they are a reminder of the good times we had together. I never thought that we would never get the chance to have a similar gathering.’
A man I know who remained in Gaza told me that if you walk its streets now, or what is left of them, you would see the corpses of unidentified people, men, women and children who died while trying to find a safe place away from the bombing. He shared videos of places where I had spent most my life, yet they were unrecognisable to me until he told me the locations. He tells me Gaza will never be the same. I think to myself, ‘Neither will we.’
Although the war showed us the worst of the world, it also showed us real kindness. During the darkest of times, there were people who managed to help others, feed them and provide them with shelter and a shoulder to cry on when no one else could. Among them is Ahmad’s family, who took my sister and me in for a very long period. Even though they had little money and their resources were scarce, they welcomed us. They used to give us food before they themselves had eaten. Ahmad’s mother, also referred to in these diaries as the grandmother, was a real example of altruism, mercy and generosity. This family was a gift sent to us from God.
At the beginning of the war, they were strangers whom we had met for the first time, thinking we would stay at their modest house for a couple of days. On the day we left, they were family members, people who have guaranteed a spot in our hearts for the rest of our lives. I hear the news, and I am told by those I know in the south that there is no food, no money, nothing. Yet, when we speak to Ahmad’s family, they reply to us in a cheerful tone, telling us they are OK, that they have everything they need. They even say that they are worried about us. The more the vicious monster of war gets its claws deeper into Gazans, the more Ahmad’s family shows love and care towards others. I pray for them to be safe and for this nightmare to end.
The war in Gaza is nothing but bitter, but it was those who shared the experience with me who made it less insufferable. This was most true of my sister: once we arrived in Egypt, I hugged her and told her that I wouldn’t have survived if it weren’t for her. We were a team, thinking together, supporting each other, facing the unimaginable daily struggles. It was true of my friends, too, the ones who happened to be displaced to areas near me. We would work together on securing resources to survive, and we would talk and laugh and play cards to ease the agony and fear we were living through. Also, my therapist, who is not Palestinian, she kept sending me emails on an almost daily basis, sharing positive thoughts, telling me that I would make it out alive. Most of the time I would reply with one short message: ‘Still alive.’ And then my non-Gazan friends, who would check on me day and night. There were many times when death was so close, and I would ask them to do a charitable thing on my behalf if I died. All of them would tell me one thing: ‘You will live.’
I ask myself now: why am I still writing? I am writing because, just like the key to my apartment and the photos of me and my friends in Gaza, these diaries are a symbol and a confirmation. A symbol of love, survival and the desire to live, and a belief that no matter where we end up, regardless of all the misery and agony we have been through, we will never stop dreaming of going back to Gaza. It will always remain in our hearts.
Please, keep the Gazans in your positive thoughts and prayers.
