I left Gaza with guilt, sorrow and tears for the son Israel took from me
I left Gaza with guilt, sorrow and tears for the son Israel took from me
Surviving 690 days of relentless violence, terror, and starvation in Gaza felt like a miracle. Yet, the path to freedom came with a price I could never fully pay.
The Loss
Weeks into the conflict, my eldest son Abdullah, then 13, perished in a bombing that shattered our home in Rafah. The strike left me and my other children wounded, while claiming the lives of several family members.
Abdullah never uttered his last word, and I was never able to say goodbye to him.
His clothes and toys had been stored in a special room to preserve a fragment of his memory. But four months later, the Israeli army razed the building, leaving only two items intact: his Quran and a comb, kept safely in a bag outside the flat.
A New Beginning
After over 18 months of systematic destruction, a connection in the Netherlands offered me a writing role at De Correspondent. The process unfolded smoothly, with the newspaper securing a work permit on my behalf. Within weeks, everything was set for my escape.
The Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Israeli authorities collaborated to grant permission to 13 Gazans, including me, to cross the border. The coordination stretched nearly two months, a period of anxious anticipation before the Dutch embassy confirmed my departure and outlined the constraints imposed at the checkpoint.
The Journey
Israeli forces barred us from carrying any belongings—extra clothing, bags, books, or even a phone charger. I accepted without protest, having already sacrificed nearly everything. It felt wrong to take my few possessions with me when so many had been left with nothing.
The rendezvous point was located close to the Unicef office in Deir al-Balah. A single delay might have cost us this precious escape, which came after 24 months of dire conditions. The night before, none of us could rest, fearing the chance would vanish before dawn.
Three buses carried 130 passengers, a mix of students, families, and individuals with work contracts, all cleared for departure by European embassies. Moving under the cover of darkness, we navigated a world devoid of electricity, guided only by the faint glow of the border checkpoint.
Weeks after the war began, my eldest son Abdullah, then 13, perished in a bombing that shattered our home in Rafah. The strike left me and my other children wounded, while claiming the lives of several family members.
By the time we reached the gathering point, most of us had already been living in tents after losing our homes. The sky buzzed with Israeli drones, casting a shadow over our fragile hope. Yet, we pressed forward, knowing this might be our last night beneath their menacing hum.
