The ninth of September is my sister Enas’s birthday, so we were happy this morning, drinking coffee as a family and telling jokes, until we saw the leaflets dropping down telling us to evacuate. So now, instead of preparing biscuits and cakes to celebrate, we are packing for another displacement.
The Israeli army’s plan to occupy Gaza City sent me back to memories of the early days of the war: the tension, the terror, and the psychological pressure. I am afraid the cycle of displacement will repeat itself again.
We have stayed in 10 places since we left our home in Beit Lahia, northern Gaza, at the start of the war. A single phrase keeps echoing in my thoughts: “I don’t want to.”
I don’t want to live through that again. I don’t want to return to the south: even though it is part of Gaza, we felt like strangers there, our hearts aching for the scent of our own soil.
We have stayed in 10 places since we left our home in Beit Lahia, northern Gaza, at the start of the war.
