After more than a year of displacement and living in a storage room that wasn’t even fit to be a garage, we finally heard the news we had long dreamed of – the news of our return.

Returning to the north meant returning to my home in Gaza City and to my parents and siblings, whom I hadn’t seen in more than a year. Every day, I regretted leaving my home and family behind and coming to the south.

The decision to leave Gaza City was made under extreme pressure.

Israel first ordered the evacuation of Gaza City in mid-October 2023; but I refused to leave until early November that year.

The soldiers had gotten closer, the bombardment was intense and food was starting to disappear in the north. I believed the lie that Gaza’s south was safe. My wife, Alaa, insisted on evacuating to the south out of fear for our two young children.

I tried to convince my father to evacuate with us but he adamantly refused. He insisted on staying in the north with my siblings, believing that the war would end soon.

My family and I moved through four consecutive waves of displacement. Our last stop was in Deir al-Balah, where we rented a storage room and turned it into a temporary shelter. We built a simple bathroom inside and endured the worst living conditions.

When we heard the news of the ceasefire and the announcement that the return would begin in a week, my heart raced with elation, as though it was the most important moment of my life. Alaa rejoiced in excitement with friends and relatives and our children jumped with joy.

For the first time since the war began, we felt that all the suffering we had endured was finally coming to an end and that we would soon return to our old life.

My 5-year-old son Mahdi, who we call Mido, kept repeating enthusiastically: “I want to go back to the playroom! I want to go back to the playroom!” He couldn’t believe it.

Throughout our displacement he had been asking me when we would return. To him, that small room filled with his toys was his entire world.

Mido’s 2-year-old sister, Jouri, shared in her brother’s excitement but didn’t fully understand what was happening. She doesn’t know what war is, nor does she understand what it meant that the war had ended or that we were returning home. For her, the storage room where she learned to walk and talk was home; she knew nothing else.

We spent the week before our return preparing our belongings, trying to decide what we could carry with us and what we had to leave behind. Those were beautiful moments as we imagined how our return would be, how we would finally sleep on a real bed, how we would sit on a couch instead of the cold floor.

We dreamed of clean ground, free of dust and insects, and of the dignity we had long been deprived of. I contacted my family in the north, and they told me they missed us terribly, that our house was still standing – alhamdulillah – and that they had cleaned and arranged it in anticipation of our arrival.

This was the dream we had been waiting for, the return to where we belonged.

Eve of return

On Saturday, 25 January, the day before our planned departure, everyone was heading to Tebet al-Tannouri, the point where people would begin their walk along coastal al-Rashid street.

Mido, seeing people carrying their belongings and heading north, started crying, saying, “They’re leaving before us! They’re leaving before us! Let’s go now!”

But I wasn’t ready to leave that day. I was afraid for my children. It was cold and I feared they would have to sleep in the streets. I also worried they might get lost in the crowds. So we decided to leave at noon on Sunday instead.

We were shocked to hear that Israeli occupation forces had opened fire on people waiting at the gathering point on Saturday. I thanked God that I hadn’t gone that day and hadn’t put my children in danger.

Later, we heard that the occupation was refusing to let displaced people return until one of the captured soldiers was released. Fear and anxiety consumed us: What if the deal fell through? What if our dreams of returning were shattered? I didn’t know how I would explain to my children that we couldn’t go back, that they wouldn’t return to the playroom they had been longing for.

Rumors and uncertainty spread among the people as we anxiously awaited any news. Eventually, we learned that the return was postponed to Monday after a new agreement was reached.

We felt a huge sense of relief and decided to set out on Monday at noon.

Those who had gone on Saturday had been forced to sleep in the streets for two full nights. As the hours passed, the crowds grew larger, with more and more people making their way to the gathering point.

The journey begins

Finally, the long-awaited moment arrived on Monday, 27 January. We packed only a few essential items we could carry: some food, a few articles of clothing and a gas cylinder for cooking. My wife and children were overwhelmed with happiness and excitement. At last, we were leaving this miserable place.

At 11 am, we set out. I was pulling a small cart loaded with our bags while my wife held our children’s hands. A friend drove us to Tebet al-Tannouri, and from there we began walking, as Israel did not allow animal-drawn carts or cars to travel along the coastal road.

The crowd was overwhelming, with thousands of people walking together. Joy was evident on everyone’s faces. People helped one another, talked about the areas they were returning to and wondered whether their homes were still standing or had been destroyed. Children were singing, and the sound of takbeer (expressions of gratitude to God) filled the air, making it feel like an eid celebration – an eid we had been deprived of for so long.

Ambulances passed through the crowds, paramedics ready for any emergencies. Some people fainted from exhaustion and their relatives sprinkled water on their faces to revive them.

People tried to carry as many of their belongings as possible because many were returning to tents and rubble instead of the homes that once sheltered them.

Exhausted

The walk was exhausting. Pulling the cart was unbearably difficult. My children began crying from fatigue, but we couldn’t carry them. We didn’t know what to do. Suddenly, the cart I was pulling broke down. The damaged wheels were impossible to repair at the time, leaving us stranded in the middle of the road.

We sat by the roadside, trying to figure out a solution. We had belongings we couldn’t abandon, a gas cylinder and two exhausted, crying children.

I contacted my friend who had driven us to the starting point and explained what had happened. I told him I needed to return to him, leave my belongings there, and come back for them another day. He agreed immediately. So I walked back alone, completely exhausted, and handed him our things before returning to my family to continue the journey with them.

I was beyond drained, but we still had a long way to go on foot.

As we continued walking through the packed streets, my wife accidentally stepped on a rusty nail. She began limping in pain, struggling to walk properly. My children were still crying; but I tried to comfort them, reminding them that we were getting closer to the playroom they had been dreaming of.

After what felt like an eternity, we finally reached the 17th Roundabout, where my brother Muhannad was waiting for us. By then, night had fallen completely. When I saw my brother I felt an immense sense of relief, as if I had truly arrived home, even though we still had a ways to go. But in that moment, I felt supported and reassured, as if the hardship of the journey had ended, along with all of our struggles.

We embraced tightly and sat for a while on the beach to catch our breath. We still had about an hour of walking left before reaching our home in al-Rimal.

Finally home

After resting and exchanging stories about the journey, we got up and continued on. The streets were dark, but our conversation and laughter made us forget our exhaustion. Finally, at 8 pm, after eight hours walking, we reached our neighborhood. And that’s when the real emotional explosion happened.

I saw the streets of my childhood, the streets whose every detail I knew by heart. I felt like I was about to cry, but I held myself together. An energetic happiness surged through me and I forgot all my fatigue at that moment.

We climbed the stairs to our home, our hearts pounding faster than our footsteps. It felt like we were stepping into another world, as if my parents and my brothers and sisters were waiting behind the door.

We opened it and there they were, welcoming us with open and loving arms. We embraced tightly, crying out of happiness, longing and reassurance, and the sense of security that we had been denied for so long. We talked nonstop, trying to make up for a year of absence and longing.

They had even prepared surprises for us: a beautiful doll for my daughter, a toy car for my son and coffee cups for my wife.

Mido and Jouri ran straight to their playroom, standing there in awe, unsure of which toy to pick up first.

Then Muhannad told us they were preparing a special dinner: chicken and salad. I couldn’t hide my smile when I saw the excitement in my children’s eyes. They had been asking me for months, “Baba, when will we eat chicken again?” I didn’t know how to explain to them that there was no food in the markets and chicken simply wasn’t available. No matter how much I might try, they are children and they don’t understand the meaning of occupation, siege and closed crossings.

Despite our exhaustion, happiness and relief erased all our pain. It felt like we had returned to our old life, with our children playing safely while we prepared dinner, talked and laughed with our loved ones in our home just like before.

At that moment, I felt as if I had traveled back in time to 6 October 2023.

It felt like a dream. I couldn’t believe the day had finally come.

I thanked God endlessly that my family was safe, my home was still standing and I wouldn’t have to return to tents or the storage room where I had lived the worst days of my life.

And now, I can finally say it out loud:

I am happy at last, after a year and several months of nonstop suffering and fear.

Yasser Al-Turk is a Palestinian writer who owned a flower shop in Gaza City’s al-Rimal district.

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