A trip of grief from Gaza to Cairo

An image of the Gaza scenery prior to the conflict. Pictured by Dana Bsaiso, shared with consent.

Dana Bsaiso's personal account of the ongoing attacks by Israel on Gaza was first shared by We Are Not Numbers on May 15, 2024. The testimony remains raw and unedited, serving as an eyewitness account to the horrors of war. It has been made available through a content-sharing agreement with Global Voices.

Most people are aware of the fact that there are five phases of sorrow: refusal, fury, negotiation, dejection, and approval. You could go through all these stages in a single day, or it might take you several months or even years to progress from one phase to another.

After the passing of my father, Salem, in December 2020, grief settled in as my constant companion. I believed that this would be the most difficult challenge I would face for the long haul.

I had no idea about what was about to happen. It never crossed my mind that I would have to mourn for the rest of my existence too.

The number of individuals and objects that bring me sorrow is increasing. I am currently mourning for my dad, my buddy Mohammed Zaher Hamo, my forsaken dwelling place, my desolate town, and my own self.

Grieving 14km

When I was living in Nuseirat Refugee Camp in Central Gaza Strip, I often thought about how close my home in Gaza City was - only 14 kilometers away. I kept track of the distance using Google Maps, which consistently showed me the same number. I eagerly anticipated the day when I could look at the map and see that I had finally made it home.

Since the day of Displacement, which occurred on October 13, 2023, I have been spending my nights lying on a wafer-thin cotton mattress that's laid out on the cold floor. Every night, I dream of myself in my cozy bedroom, sleeping peacefully in my soft and comfortable bed.

In my dream, I visualized reducing the 14 kilometers to nothing.

The author's sleeping quarter in their Gaza City residence displays a vibrant red bedspread, adorned wall paintings, and bright, sparkling lights. A photo taken by Dana Besaiso, permitted for use.

I yearned for my cozy bed with its striking red cover, the artful pictures decorating my walls, and the sparkling lanterns that illuminated my sleeping quarters after dark.

I wondered about the clothes that were left to dry on the rack since October 12. Did they get knocked down due to the nearby Israeli bombings and now require another wash? Has the food in the fridge spoiled because there was no power?

After the Israeli Minister of Defense Yoav Gallant declared a total blockade on Gaza on October 9th, my sister Lama and I were left wondering what happened to the water bottles we had filled. We were left to ponder whether someone took a sip from them to quench their thirst, given that there was no access to essentials such as electricity, food, and fuel.

"We are battling against inhumane beings and responding with necessary actions," Gallant asserted. But, aren't animals also dependent on food and water?

Whenever I thought of these complex and overwhelming questions, I would simply turn off my mind. I didn't really want to know the answers, I just wanted to imagine home the way I remembered it.

There was not enough time to mourn.

To be able to endure, I had to hold back any emotions or ideas as a way of handling the situation.

Last year, on November 24th, I found out that my friend Mohammed Hamo was killed by Israeli warplanes. It was really surprising news, but I didn't cry at all.

To keep going, I needed to suppress my overwhelming sense of grief. I relied on memories of Mohammed's witty texts during the genocide to reassure myself that he was still present.

I was lucky to escape Gaza with my family and relocate to Egypt. However, it was a mixed feeling because it had both positive and negative emotions.

Thank goodness, I am not being targeted by the constant gunfire from boats, bombing planes, and tanks anymore. Nonetheless, I am struggling deeply with missing my home.

The author's street of residence prior to the genocide is depicted in the snapshot captured by Dana Besaiso and shared with authorization.

Currently, there is a distance of 373 kilometers separating me from my home.

Presently, I am obliged to grieve over a distance of 373 kilometers.

As I waited for the gap to close, it ended up growing larger.

While I was staying in Nuseirat, I witnessed the destruction caused by the Israeli tanks in the Netzarim region of the Northern Gaza Strip. These tanks served as a hindrance to movement and progress in the area. However, as time has passed, I have noticed that the number of obstacles has increased significantly.

If you want to go back home, you have to travel by car for a considerable amount of time to reach the Rafah crossing. Then, you need to spend some time at the border of Rafah crossing before going through the newly established checkpoint at Netzarim, which takes around an hour. After that, you only need to spend twenty more minutes on the road to arrive home.

with joy as you hold the keys to your house after years of being denied access. This was the experience of a Palestinian family living in East Jerusalem. Put yourself in their shoes. How would you feel if your basic right to reside in your own home was repeatedly denied? Now, imagine the immense relief and happiness that comes with ending that struggle and being able to return to your rightful place. This is the reality for many Palestinians, who have lived under occupation for decades with their homes and land being confiscated or demolished. It's important to consider these stories and remember that freedom of movement and the right to a home are fundamental human rights that should be granted to all. We must continue to push for justice and equality for all those who have been denied these basic rights.

I was completely taken aback by the immense surge of feelings I experienced upon arriving in Egypt. Although I had previously experienced sorrow, I was not anticipating such a strong reaction.

During the ongoing genocide, Fatma Hassona captured a photo of the writer's street which is currently devoid of any inhabitants. The photo was taken with the writer's permission.

One day, while having a conversation with a group of pals on WhatsApp, one of them shared a sticker that Mohammed adored and added the phrase: "Mohammed's sticker. May Allah rest his soul."

At that instant, I realized that Mohammed had departed and I burst into tears.

I cried for Mohammed, for my own self, for the place where I used to live but left behind, and for all the people who are not with me anymore.

Whenever I reminisce about Mohammed, I'm often reminded of a famous quote by John Green: "Not all infinities are created equal." Mohammed was a brilliant shining light in our lives, and we were all gifted with an infinite amount of precious moments during the numbered days he spent with us. I will always be grateful for that.

Home Street Turned Dull Gray

One evening, I was scrolling through Instagram stories, staying updated on the current situation in Gaza. While doing so, a photographer who was still situated in the northern part of Gaza shared a video of my residential street.

At the beginning, I was unable to identify it. The roadway appeared faded to me; it became colorless due to the destruction and scattered fragments.

I felt a painful sensation in my chest as I observed the situation.

It's hard to believe that the place that was once full of life, vitality, and dynamism has transformed into pulverized debris.

What caused the formerly blue ocean to transform into a dismal shade of grey? What led to the suffocation of the air we breathe? How did my once smooth life suddenly become filled with wrinkles?

I cried when I saw the pictures. If the road was in such disarray, then what happened to the other homes? What about my own house?

I wonder if my red duvet has changed color to gray or is it still red like I recall it to be?

I long for my hometown. I yearn for all of the things that make it special and meaningful. You know what they say, "There's no place like home." No matter if it's a small house or a grand mansion, the feeling of being connected to that place is what truly makes it feel like home.

I used to live in Gaza City, which was my place of residence. The feeling of longing for my home is intense.

Finding Our Way Back Home

Picture of author's mobile device. Image courtesy of Dana Besaiso, utilized with approval.

After over 200 days, how would it feel to return home?

When I search for my house on Google Maps, it currently says that it cannot provide directions, but I firmly believe that a solution will be discovered soon.

I am certain that the distance of 373 kilometers will diminish, the obstacles and inspection points will vanish, and eventually, the Israeli domination will come to an end, allowing me to return to my homeland.