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
A Year and a Half of Loss
Gaza endured 690 days of relentless violence, terror, and deprivation. For nearly two years, the region was ravaged by conflict, leaving families shattered and resources scarce. Among those affected was a mother who lost her home, her relatives, and nearly everything to the war’s relentless advance.
A New Beginning in the Netherlands
After months of displacement, a chance arose when a Dutch acquaintance reached out about a writing position at De Correspondent. The process was surprisingly smooth. De Correspondent submitted a work permit application on my behalf, and within weeks, the necessary arrangements were made. My Dutch friends and the newspaper’s team worked tirelessly, coordinating with authorities to secure passage for 13 Gazans, including myself.
The Last Goodbye
My eldest son, Abdullah, was 13 when an Israeli air strike obliterated our home in Rafah. The attack left me and my other children injured, while several relatives lost their lives. Soon after, my surviving children fled the area. Later, the Israeli military razed the residential block where my apartment stood, erasing the city I once called home.
Restrictions and Reluctance
On the day of departure, Israel imposed strict limits on what we could carry. No bags, books, or even a phone charger were allowed. I hesitated, knowing I had already relinquished so much. Yet, it felt wrong to take my few possessions with me when countless others were left with nothing. I shared what remained with my siblings and relatives.
Abdullah’s Keepsakes
One item lingered in my thoughts: Abdullah’s last mementos. After his death, I preserved his clothes and toys in a room of our home, hoping to keep a piece of his memory alive. But when the Israeli forces destroyed the building, all his belongings were lost. Only his Quran and comb survived, tucked into a bag outside the flat.
The Final Night of Hope
The departure was scheduled for Wednesday, 27 August 2025. Under the shadow of Israeli drones, we navigated the darkness toward Deir al-Balah’s Unicef office, where the meeting point was set. The journey was fraught with uncertainty, but we pressed on, driven by the hope that this would be our last night beneath the relentless hum of warplanes.
Survivors in Transit
On the bus, 130 passengers filled three vehicles. Among them were students, families, and workers who had been granted exit permits by European embassies. As we departed, the weight of unspoken grief hung heavy.
“My son Abdullah was in the middle of speaking to me when the bomb struck our home and, in an instant, he was gone.”
I never heard his final words, and my goodbye remained unfinished. The trip marked not just a beginning, but a painful reckoning with what had been taken from me.