My Parents Fled Gaza. I’m Still Here. We May Never See Each Other Again.

"I don't wish to abandon you, Noor, but there appears to be no alternative," Mama expressed. "We are exhausted and can no longer endure it."

After an Israeli strike hit the home of the Al Nadi Family in the al-Daraj region of Gaza City on May 24, 2024, civil defense squads and locals worked together to conduct search and rescue operations.

At the beginning of October, when the war was just starting, I was faced with a difficult decision. Should I leave my modest home in central Gaza with my husband, Mohammad, and our beloved daughter, Lya, or should we stay and confront the crisis alongside our family? Choosing to depart may have protected the future I was constructing, but at the cost of leaving behind the life I already had. Alternatively, remaining could have jeopardized my new beginnings.

During the initial days of the conflict, the issue appeared hypothetical. I believed that I might never need to make a decision. Perhaps the situation would improve within a short period. However, with perpetual bombardments, the matter began to preoccupy my thoughts.

On October 13, a day that will never be forgotten to me, the Israeli military dispersed pamphlets from the air, claiming that it was to advise us to evacuate due to the hazardous situation (although no location in Gaza was deemed harmless). We were aware of the implication: We anticipated even more targeted bombings and we had to make a decision if we should remain in place or leave.

I can recall my father and brother arriving at my doorstep with worried expressions on their faces. "Pack your bags quickly, Noor," urged my father. I felt uncertain. Why were we being forced to leave by Israel? Was it really any safer in the southern region?

I requested that we hold off. "It's not the right time, Dad. Let's wait and observe what unfolds." Nonetheless, I was frightened for our safety. "Will you abandon us?" I inquired. My dad's gentle tone interjected the cacophony of aggression encompassing us, "I won't leave unless you come with me, Noor," he reassured.

During a time when many people were leaving their homes to find safety down south, my husband and I made the decision to stay put. We were feeling unsure about what was going on, but we had a strong instinct that it was best to stay in our own home, even if it meant risking our lives. We knew that if something were to happen, we would rather face it on our own turf than anywhere else in Gaza.

My ancestral home, situated around three kilometers away from my current residence, is positioned in close proximity to Al-Shifa Hospital. The hospital was one of the primary targets for the Israeli army since the beginning of the assault. I was aware of the danger my family faced by staying there. However, despite the escalating bombing and the increasing number of our neighbors fleeing south every day, my father adamantly refused to abandon the very home he had constructed for me and all my siblings to live in.

The nights blended with the days; I couldn't get enough sleep and was constantly anxious about the safety of my loved ones. Although we lived close by, it was too risky to walk to their location. Additionally, Israel's attack on communication networks put us in complete darkness, unable to communicate with the outside world or even call for emergency help from our house. Mohammed had to take dangerous trips outside just to get online.

I last saw my dad in late October when he suddenly appeared at my doorstep. He had bravely walked through a warzone just to make sure I was safe. Despite the bombs dropping around him, he risked it all to reach me.

I recall the expression on my spouse's countenance when he inquired, "Uncle, what's the reason you came all this way? It's awfully perilous and far away." To which my dad replied, "I have to see Noor, no matter how great the distance may be." The memory of tears welling up in my eyes still lingers with me.

I embraced my father with a strong hug and pressed my lips to his hands, recognizing that it might be the last time I saw him. Despite the challenges surrounding us, he presented me with a bag filled with cookies and candies as a symbol of his love and loyalty. Even today, I am unable to consume the final candy from that bag.

A couple of days after, specifically on November 2nd, my sibling reached out to me with news that left me troubled. They broke the news that my dad, mom, two of my siblings, and their family had ditched their current location and headed south for safety. Apparently, the circumstances around Al-Shifa had become perilous thanks to Israel's staunch determination to demolish it. The region had become too hazardous for survival. They had initially planned on finding refuge at my place, but the mayhem caused a last-minute change of heart. It was also too risky for them to bid us farewell in person.

I was very emotional and shed a lot of tears. Even though I wanted them to be safe, it was extremely difficult to say goodbye without being able to hug them for the final time.

In simpler terms, my brother expressed his desire for me, Mohammed, and Lya to join our family by heading south. I really wanted to go, but Mohammed was very determined to stay. He didn't want to leave our neighbors behind, as they were also unwilling to move. They believed in sticking together, whether that meant staying put or leaving as a group.

Mohammed would always tell me that I didn't have to stay with him and that I could choose to leave with my parents if I wanted to survive. But, I was in a fragile state and couldn't make such a tough decision. I was aware that once I left, there was no going back. Additionally, I didn't feel like I was capable of taking care of Lya without my spouse.

Eventually, destiny determined that we stay in the northern area of Gaza, whereas my relatives traveled towards the south. The space between us seemed vast, and it was overshadowed by the Israeli military's enormous presence. Despite my decision to keep Mohammed and Lya close, I couldn't shake off the bitterness towards them for keeping me apart from my family. However, deep down, I knew that it wasn't entirely their fault as the war was the root cause of such heartbreaking separations for all families in Gaza.

During the ongoing war, the Israeli army attempted to evacuate the western area of Gaza City, causing our approximately 60 relatives residing there to seek refuge and flee to us. We faced the daunting challenge of finding shelter for them, but were resolved to not abandon our family. Despite limited space, we offered them sanctuary in my family's home which has four apartments. Though not ideal, it was better than leaving them with nowhere to go.

At this stage, the Israeli Armed Forces had relocated from the vicinity of the residence for a while, making it less dangerous to make our way there. However, as we entered the home that was all-too-familiar, our optimism swiftly transformed into distress.

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The previous lively residence had transformed into a faint memory, its previous glory faded away. It was now enclosed in darkness, covered in dust, and had sustained damage. Every angle we observed showed broken doors, ruined windows, and dusty crevices. Despite this miserable sight, there was no room for pondering on the destruction.

After my father left, I took charge as the person in charge of looking after our home. I put down my bags and quickly got to work, inspiring others to join in with cleaning and arranging things despite the approaching dusk. As time went on, we began to feel the gravity of our circumstances, leaving us with little time to prepare for the upcoming night.

When the sun started to rise, I suddenly realized the truth of our situation and it felt overwhelming. I appreciated having a safe place to stay, but I felt deeply sad about my family not being with me. I remembered happier moments with them, like my mother's kind expression while cooking or my father's reassuring talks in the lounge. Their absence created an emptiness inside me that couldn't be healed by anyone else.

In February, the Israeli military had pulled out of most areas in the west, which allowed our relatives to return to their partially destroyed homes. I departed from my family's residence with the expectation of someday returning when my loved ones would be present to share in our joy and happiness. Instead, I returned to my own residence with my friends Mohammed and Lya, which had also suffered significant damage during the Israeli attack. Despite the state of the house, we made an effort to patch up the broken windows, clean the interiors and decided to occupy one functional room, which was the norm for many other Gazans during that time.

My relatives stayed in the southern part of Gaza for six distressing months where they had to deal with being displaced and going through torment. Even though they tried to be resilient, sickness started wearing them down. My mom's blood pressure soared and my dad had to handle both diabetes and a herniated disk. Because they were struggling with various health issues and dealing with the constant pressure of their situation, they made the incredibly difficult choice to leave for Egypt.

We said our goodbyes through the phone as we wept and our hearts were shattered.

"Noor, please don't shed tears," Baba spoke gently, "display your strength as you have always done."

"I hate to part ways, Noor, but we've exhausted all other options," Mama said weakly. "We're drained and unable to continue in this manner."

Once again, we were unable to hug before saying goodbye.

Is it possible for them to return to Gaza in the future? Can I experience the love of my parents' hug once more?

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Noor Alyacoubi resides in Gaza and works as a writer.