Gaza, where have you gone?

Because of Israel’s destruction, many places in Jabaliya refugee camp can no longer be recognized.
Khaled Daoud APA images

Growing up amid wars has meant constant upheaval and fear.

When Israel attacked Gaza in December 2008, I was 8. I sought refuge from the bombs by hiding in my closet and under my bed.

That ingrained a deep claustrophobia in me.

When Israel waged another war against Gaza in July and August 2014, I was 15. My trauma manifested itself in an eating disorder.

The current genocidal war in Gaza surpasses all prior horrors. The devastation is unimaginable.

Most of the places I once frequented are now either gone or repurposed. From my childhood home reduced to debris to the kindergarten, school and university razed by Israeli forces, the destruction is pervasive.

All the places where I spent time with friends have been bombed, including our favorite resort, book shop and restaurant.

My grandparents’ house is partially destroyed. Even the photo of my grandparents’ wedding, which had been hanging on the wall for more than 50 years, has bullet holes in it.

All the photos on the wall were shot at. It was as if an Israeli soldier imagined himself in a video game.

The loss feels even greater when I think of how those places shaped who I am. They provided a backdrop for my childhood and a sense of belonging.

Now that they are destroyed, it feels as if a part of my identity has been erased, leaving behind only the intangible echoes of what once was.

The landscape of my childhood, once full of life, is now a series of fragmented memories of places that no longer exist.

When Israel ordered a mass evacuation of northern Gaza during October, many people living in Jabaliya refugee camp and its environs refused to leave. The area, therefore, remained densely populated.

Like other parts of the Gaza Strip, Jabaliya camp endured intense Israeli bombardment.

A massacre in the camp on 31 October resulted in a huge number of civilian deaths.

Dropping at least six bombs from the air, the Israeli military caused extensive destruction.

A massive crater was left in the heart of the camp.

The impact of this crime was deeply personal for me.

Many of Jabaliya’s residents are originally from Deir Suneid, my family’s village in historic Palestine. Deir Suneid was ethnically cleansed by the Israeli army in November 1948.

More than 100 people who were originally from Deir Suneid have been killed during the current genocide in Gaza. About half of them were my relatives.

These were people I had known from various gatherings.

Strength and unity

Despite the devastation, signs of resilience persisted.

Remarkably, Jabaliya’s market continued to operate, with shop owners persevering to sell goods amid the war.

Jabaliya’s residents also tended to their lands, salvaging whatever crops remained, such as mallow and lemons.

At a time of famine and destruction, their resourcefulness knew no bounds.

They made kaak – cookies – using animal feed flour. Surprisingly, the kaak tasted delicious.

They made chips from corn flour.

At a time when vegetables were scarce in the market, I enjoyed the most incredible falafel.

Due to the shortage of fuel, civil defense teams struggled to function effectively. Consequently, when houses were bombed, the residents of the camp came together to search for the missing beneath the rubble, utilizing basic tools and their bare hands.

Many people shared their solar panels with their neighbors.

They sent food to each other in the darkest days of famine.

They helped each other to carry containers of water.

They erected tents on the rubble of their destroyed homes and made do with what they had. Jabaliya remained bustling, a testament to the strength and unity of its people.

People marveled at how despite all the destruction in Jabaliya, its market remained crowded.

“God bless Jabaliya,” my mother said.

“God only knows what the Israelis plan to do next time. The Israelis hate lively places because they show it is possible to recover.”

During this current war, people have not become optimistic when life has returned to a specific area. They know that the Israelis are likely to invade again.

That has been evident from Gaza City.

After withdrawing from the neighborhoods of al-Rimal and al-Zaytoun, the Israelis re-invaded them. They did the same with al-Shifa, Gaza’s largest hospital.

And they did the same with Jabaliya. Months after withdrawing from Jabaliya last year, the Israeli military reinvaded it last month.

The stated objective of Israel’s invasions is to defeat Hamas. Of course, that is not true.

The real reason is that people in Jabaliya had begun to recover. And the Israelis do not want that to happen.

By “recovering,” I mean that people tried to rebuild or clean up what the Israelis had destroyed.

Despite the destruction, places started to thrive. Some people began to feel a semblance of stability.

Going around in circles

Whenever such recovery starts, the Israeli army returns, destroys and kills again, making life impossible.

It felt like we were going around in circles. People who were relieved that their houses were damaged rather than destroyed during the first invasion faced the horrible prospect that their homes would not withstand a second or third invasion.

Israel wants all of us to be homeless.

Jabaliya had already been devastated last year. So what was the point of inflicting more destruction on it in May 2024?

The answer was to erase landmarks in and other features of Jabaliya so that its residents could no longer recognize them.

My father received numerous calls from relatives expressing their confusion over the whereabouts of their homes. The term “destruction” fails to capture what Israel has done.

My father headed towards northern Gaza but ultimately decided against visiting Jabaliya. He was unable to bear witness to how his childhood surroundings had been transformed into piles of rubble.

He even avoided viewing photos on social media so that he could spare himself the heartache.

Not a single place in Jabaliya was left undamaged during Israel’s May invasion. It feels like Israeli soldiers compete to see who can cause the most harm.

Any possibility of recovery has been leveled to the ground. Huge numbers of houses were demolished.

The once vibrant market is now a ghost town. Its shops have been wiped out.

Jabaliya camp used to be the most lively place in northern Gaza. Now it – to all intents and purposes – no longer exists.

The infrastructure on which the camp relied has also been devastated. That includes the generators in the two local hospitals.

Memory maps

I have spent most of my life in Jabaliya. I knew it intimately.

I remember the corner of my childhood house that I mischievously painted with watercolors, only to be scolded by my mother.

I remember where I used to try and hide school reports with bad grades, hoping that my mother would not notice them.

I remember how I ate strawberries on the balcony as a 7-year-old, while chatting to the girl next door.

I remember going with my mother to the Jabaliya camp market.

I remember begging for ice cream from Abu Zaytoun’s shop, as my mother carried bags filled with things she had bought.

The ice cream machine seemed magical. It could shape perfect vanilla and chocolate towers.

I remember the hum of the machine.

It breaks my heart to know it has now been destroyed.

I remember the shop where we would buy new clothes for Eid and the one where I sat by the entrance begging my mother for a toy horse. They are now reduced to ruins.

The route to my childhood friend’s home remains etched in my mind, though it was demolished by the occupation forces. She and her family were killed last year.

The roads once filled with the sounds of students leaving their schools are now in a terrible state.

The schools had been turned into shelters during the war. Most of them are destroyed or badly damaged.

So many memories are etched in my mind. But the physical spaces associated with those memories are gone.

It makes me wonder, what is the importance of all these memories if there is no physical evidence left to anchor them? What should I do with the mental maps that remain of these places?

When we say “this is my place,” we’re not just referring to a physical location. We are referring to something bigger within a cohesive social framework.

Disruptions to our sense of place can have far-reaching implications for our personal identity and well-being.

A home serves as more than just a shelter – it symbolizes safety, dignity and pride. It’s where families live, dream, celebrate and mourn.

Furthermore, it provides a foundation for the growth, development and education of children and for the security of parents and grandparents.

The systematic destruction of homes in modern warfare has profound human consequences.

The geographer J. Douglas Porteous coined the term “domicide” in 1998. It is defined as the “planned, deliberate destruction of someone’s home, causing suffering to the dweller.”

Domicide is violence that not only results in physical displacement but also the erosion of dignity, memory and identity.

Domicide disrupts daily life, transforming once familiar places into alien landscapes.

Parts of Gaza now feel unfamiliar, as though they no longer recognize me.

Despite my disorientation, I am pushing forward. I am clinging to the mental maps of places I once knew.

I confess that I am unsure of how relevant these mental maps are in this new reality. But I am determined to carve out a path amid the destruction.

I am holding onto the memories of the erased landmarks, longing for their eventual return.

Beloved Gaza, where have you gone?

Malak Hijazi is a writer based in Gaza.