The Electronic Intifada 19 February 2025
Our home in Gaza was spacious and beautiful, with three bedrooms, two living rooms and a kitchen that always smelled like my mom’s cooking. More than a house, it was a collection of memories, where every corner told a story.
My room was painted in soft pink, filled with warmth and comfort. It wasn’t just my sanctuary alone – it was shared with my sisters, Reem and Iman.
Our room had three beds, each one marking the space we grew up in, a place where we laughed, fought, studied and dreamed. The pink walls and the moonlight that streamed through the window were my constant companions. From my bed, I could always see the moon – my favorite sight of the day.
The living room was our main place to gather, the heart of our family.
On Fridays, when everyone was free, it was where we ate lunch together, shared stories and enjoyed each other’s company. It was also where we hosted guests, who filled it with love and laughter.
But if there was one place my mom truly cherished beyond her own room, it was the second living room – the one she reserved for herself. It was her retreat, where she would start her day with a cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate.
“Like a warm hug”
The kitchen was the first place I’d rush to when I got home from school or university. I’d inhale deeply, eager to find out what dishes my mom had prepared for us, the tantalizing smells greeting me like a warm hug. It wasn’t just about the food – it was the love, the care, the thoughtfulness that went into every meal.
Then there was the balcony, my favorite place to study. From there, I could see the beautiful park filled with olive trees and flowers. It was a peaceful spot, but it came with its distractions. My dad and his friends often gathered there at dawn, their laughter and conversations filling the air. Sometimes that broke my focus, but I didn’t mind. I loved the energy, the feeling of life outside my books.
Reem would act like a little spy and sneak peeks at me from the balcony, making sure I was studying without distraction. Her watching over me was a form of love and care, even though it annoyed me at times.
Our extended family loved to come together at our home for special occasions. It was the perfect venue for these gatherings, and I always dreamed of holding my graduation party there. I imagined it so vividly – celebrating with the people I loved, dancing in the space in which I grew up.
But that wasn’t meant to be.
New life
I left for Qatar in July 2023, leaving behind so many memories. I couldn’t take everything with me; there was only so much I could carry. I left my beautiful dresses, the letters written to me by my friends, the gifts they had given me and the certificates marking my achievements.
I promised myself I’d come back for them one day.
My university books, letters of recommendation and instructors’ remarks on my exams – so many significant parts of my life were left behind in the place I called home.
When the ceasefire came, I thought it would bring relief and the end of suffering. I sent a video message to my family telling them that soon we would all return home.
I had dreams of reuniting with them in Gaza and showing my infant son, Saif, where his mother had grown up. I pictured us walking through the rooms together, letting him sit on my old bed, watching TV in the living room where we used to gather. I imagined cooking in the kitchen and seeing my mom preparing the meals I had grown up with.
But the ceasefire didn’t bring the peace I had hoped for.
When I called my mom, her voice trembled as she told me the news that Israel had destroyed our home.
I couldn’t believe it. All those memories, all those pieces of myself, reduced to rubble. My home was gone, and with it, so much of who I was. They didn’t just bomb a pile of stones. They bombed my life, my childhood, my identity.
I had been holding on to the hope that I could return home. But now I know that isn’t possible. My home is gone. And with it, the little Rana I used to be.
The pain of this loss is still raw. Hopes that my family would leave the tent they had been living in for so long and move back home are now shattered. Instead, they will return to that same temporary shelter, facing uncertainty and instability once again. It is a cycle that never seems to end.
Now I must carry the memories of what has been lost in my heart as I try to build a new life, knowing that there is no returning to the old one.
All images courtesy of the author.
Rana al-Shorbaji is an English teacher and writer.
