The Electronic Intifada 17 October 2024
The writer’s desk in Mansoura, Egypt.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling like I usually do before I go to sleep.
I am in Egypt, in Mansoura, about two hours north of Cairo. I feel safe for the first time in my life, in a country that has embraced me and whose people have welcomed me.
I can actually taste the food that I eat. I walk on streets that are lit.
I was forced to leave Gaza and my hometown of Deir al-Balah on 19 February. I left my friends, my room, my dreams, my goals, my future, my happiness. I have nothing left. It seems like I have no identity.
I’ve been in Egypt for eight months, but I am still waiting to return to my homeland. To this day I am still searching for a warm refuge to contain me and console me in my exile.
There must be another world somewhere. But now I am here.
Before bed, I keep escaping into my head, into my thoughts, because I am bewildered by my new reality. To pass the time, I flip through images on my phone, I read books and I listen to music until I fall asleep.
My reality is that I am displaced. I feel like my identity is not valued or recognized. I have no clear future, and no matter what I do to try to escape, life slaps me with a reminder of my current situation.
There was nothing left
I remember the day I heard that Israel had bombed my university, Al-Azhar, in November 2023.
I was at home in Deir al-Balah having breakfast with my family when a neighbor told us. I felt so angry. The occupation wants to keep us from education, too.
It reminded me of the words my mother had told me when I was very young: “Education is your shield, Reem. It protects you and helps you build a better future.”
There was nothing left of the university. No professors, no students, no classes, no lectures, no books, no seats, not even a library or cafeteria.
I had just completed my third year of university and was ready to start my fourth and final year of classes. I really felt magic when I would walk into the classroom and through campus. It was the first time I had ever experienced being in a place that seemed to hold so much potential.
One time, I was at the cafeteria eating a falafel sandwich for breakfast when a hungry kitten passed me by. I poured a little yogurt on the floor for her, which she eagerly licked up. From that moment on, I made a habit of buying extra food to feed her, and she quickly became my friend.
I often wonder about her. Is she like me, displaced? I wonder if she’s under the rubble or looking for me to feed her again.
My family and I fled to Egypt when our neighborhood was bombed. We left most of our belongings behind and arrived in Rafah with just a small bag of clothes and some food.
Sleep never comes easily
We have encountered many nice people in Egypt. One family bought us food on our bus journey as a show of honor and hospitality. Many people, when they hear I am from Gaza, express happiness that we are safe and happy.
To this day, I still see the joy on their faces when they discover that we have come from Gaza and that we are now safe.
While my first night at a relative’s home in Egypt brought a sense of relief – I was safe, away from the bombing and death – there was also a deep sense of loss. I wasn’t home.
I hadn’t realized that everything I ever knew in my life might be destroyed. It is hard to keep this thought out of my mind, along with thoughts of everyone I know and where they are now – some displaced and scattered around Gaza and the world, some dead and others simply disappeared.
Sleep never comes easily. I toss and turn in bed with anxious thoughts of the future.
What will happen to me? How will I continue my education? Will I ever complete my degree?
My mother encouraged me to look for classes online, and I was surprised to see that Al-Azhar had opened online classes. Even in the most horrific of circumstances, a genocide, my professors found a way for us to continue our education, even waiving fees.
I bought new notebooks and pens, and I began attending online lectures. I miss the actual university, but I feel lucky to have this routine.
I am still chasing my dreams and trying to create the life that I want, no matter the cost. I am determined to walk toward the sun and to leave the dark behind.
Reem Sleem is a writer from Gaza.
