Huda Skaik
As a writer, my words often spill onto the page like a flood of emotions, capturing the nuances of life, love and loss. But in this moment of reflection, I find myself grappling with a profound sense of displacement – now an inseparable part of my identity, as it is for all Palestinians who have been pushed from their homes in northern Gaza and expelled to the south.
My roots are in northern Gaza. I grew up in al-Rimal neighbourhood in the heart of Gaza City, where the vibrancy and beauty of life once enveloped me.
Laughter used to echo through the crowded streets as students headed to their schools and universities, and calls to prayer filled the skies of Gaza. Warm greetings exchanged with neighbours formed the fabric of my daily life.
I deeply miss my neighbourhood, where the scent of freshly baked bread and pastries wafted from local bakeries, and the delicious aromas of falafel, hummus and kunafa filled the air from nearby shops.
Along with the fragrant notes of coffee, nuts and spices, and the tangy aromas of pickles, olives and red peppers, this created a delightful atmosphere.
I remember the stunning dresses displayed in shop windows. At night, the streets were mesmerising and magical, illuminated by bright lights.
Today, however, all of these memories are tinged with a bittersweet ache, as my once-vibrant neighbourhood has been reduced to ashes and darkness.
As I sit in an unfamiliar tent in Khan Younis in southern Gaza, the distance from home feels like an insurmountable chasm, one that deepens with each passing day. Israel bombed my home in February, forcing my family to flee south. My longing to go home weighs heavily on my heart.
Ache of separation
Here, in the streets of displacement, I grapple with the intangible nature of home - a place that holds not only memories, but also a profound sense of belonging and warmth. Home is a place that was built and established with love, not stones.
Displacement is not merely about geography. The ache of separation deepens when I consider my friends and relatives who remain in northern Gaza.
I miss the evenings spent gathered with loved ones; the discussions that flowed like rivers of ideas; the deep conversations that seemed to stretch into infinity; the solace found in shared experiences. Those moments are now ghosts, reminders of connections severed by circumstances beyond our control.
I find solace in the ability to connect with loved ones and hear their voices over the phone. But these interactions are but a shadow of the warmth of a real embrace. Virtual exchanges can never replicate the laughter that once echoed in our shared spaces, or the comfort found in a simple touch.
The longing for physical presence is profound. The voices that once filled the streets of Gaza exist now only in memory, like a haunting melody that lingers in the air.
Whenever I reach my friends and family who are still in northern Gaza, they describe the catastrophic situation there, as the harsh realities of genocide fuel hunger, disease and destruction. I consciously avoid discussing food - especially chicken, vegetables, fruits and biscuits - as these essentials are scarce due to Israel’s blockade, and when available, they are unaffordable.
Each time I speak with my grandparents, uncles or aunts, they end our conversation by saying: “You will return, inshallah. We can’t wait for the day we reunite.”
Source of strength
When I call my friend Sara, I ask how she manages to keep busy amid the hellish chaos. “I try to keep busy by reading books and the Quran,” she responds, “but every time I hear a bomb or missile, a wave of terror washes over me. I’ve struggled with this feeling for over a year now.”
Her distress leaves me feeling powerless, but I urge her to stay strong. In her voice messages, she says: “I miss you so much, dear Huda. I can’t wait to see you again and have a deep conversation. I frequently look at our photos, reminiscing about the beautiful days we shared at university. You will return, inshallah.”
Her words are a source of strength for me, fuelling my endurance.
For many years, due to Israeli restrictions, we have been unable to visit Jerusalem, or any other occupied Palestinian city - but now, we are prevented even from visiting our beloved neighbourhoods of northern Gaza. Those of us who have been displaced to the territory’s south are cut off from both our past and our potential future, as the Israeli-imposed Netzarim corridor entrenches our separation.
The walls that confine us are not only physical; there are also the invisible barriers of occupation and siege. I find myself constantly wondering about life outside of Gaza, beyond the Rafah crossing. Do people on the other side share our dreams, our struggles - or do they live in a reality untouched by the shadows that loom over our daily existence?
Each day, I grapple with the stark contrast between my life in Gaza, filled with uncertainty and limitations, and the potential lives of others who enjoy freedoms of which I can only dream.
My displacement is both a burden and a source of inspiration. The pain of separation fuels my writing, urging me to capture the essence of home, to immortalise the memories that define my existence.
As Refaat Alareer, our former professor at the Islamic University of Gaza who was killed in an Israeli air strike in late 2023, once said: “Although the land is physically occupied, it still lives in our memories and hearts.”
His words are felt immensely across Gaza. The longing for home connects us to our past, grounding us in the places and people who shaped our identities.
Though walls may confine us, our spirits remain unbroken. I hold onto the hope that one day, these barriers will crumble, allowing us to once again walk freely in the streets of Gaza and beyond; to embrace our friends and traverse the paths leading to Jerusalem. Until that day, I will hold my memories close.
(Huda Skaik is an English literature student and a writer. She is a member of We Are Not Numbers project.)
