The Electronic Intifada 28 November 2024
Israeli forces killed Romouz, Shahad Ali’s mother.
The house where I was born and raised was a slice of heaven, nestled in front of a vibrant garden. It was a simple house in al-Zaytoun, a Gaza City neighborhood, yet it had the power to soothe your heart and lift any burden from your soul.
Each morning felt magical, frequently filled with crisp, refreshing air carrying the delicate fragrance of orange and rose blossoms from the garden. Dewdrops clung to the leaves like scattered diamonds, capturing the first light of day and shimmering with a quiet elegance that heightened the beauty around me.
Both my grandfather and grandmother were refugees, forced to leave in 1948 their beloved land in Beit Daras under the looming threat of the massacre after a Zionist paramilitary organization attacked their village.
Building a house
Arriving in Gaza with little more than resilience, my grandmother was 17 then, her husband 23. They worked tirelessly in the fields to save money to build their house, brick by brick, pouring their hearts into every corner.
Over the years, my grandparents did everything they could to make the house they built feel like home – a sanctuary stitched together by love and longing for the life they had left behind.
Their love for the house ran through generations, binding family members to it as though it were an extension of our own hearts.
There were 11 trees in the garden, some laden with fruit, that stood as a testament to my grandparents’ deep-rooted devotion to their house and land. The fruit – oranges, figs, dates – held a magic in their taste and color, their abundance a tribute to years of tender care.
Our harvests were always bountiful, spilling over to feed the entire neighborhood, uniting us all in the joy of that shared blessing.
Memories as survival tools
Those good memories have helped guide me through the unrelenting Israeli siege. We have found ways to carve out moments of joy as being with each other and sharing stories have helped in temporarily escaping the prison-like reality of Gaza.
Yet, the Israeli occupation seemingly views this simple life as a luxury we do not deserve.
Since the beginning of the genocide in October 2023, the Israeli military has systematically worked to destroy every bit of beauty in our lives. Stability was replaced by the chaos of displacement, laughter by the haunting feelings of tears and screams, and safety gave way to the relentless bombing and bloodshed.
When Israeli forces invaded the al-Zaytoun neighborhood, we were forced to flee.
My mother – her name was Romouz – and tens of my neighbors were killed in the attack.
The Israel military operation lasted more than 20 days, during which I was displaced twice, eventually ending up in a classroom at al-Aqsa University. I remained in agonizing uncertainty, not knowing if my home had survived or if any physical trace of my life in it was left intact.
I longed desperately for my home clinging to the faint hope that some part of it remained untouched, still holding the comforting scent of my mother, whom I will never see again. I whispered prayers that it had been spared.
My home is the last thing that connects me to her.
The home was more than four walls; it was the center of our lives. It was where I laughed freely, cried openly and played without a care.
It was the place where I knelt beside my mother and grandmother, planting flowers and trees in the garden, our hands deep in the soil as we nurtured life together. Every corner of that house whispered stories of the joyful moments we shared as a family, each space infused with memories of warmth, love and belonging.
The walls held echoes of laughter, the floors knew the rhythm of our steps, and the garden bloomed with reminders of the hands that tended it.
Once the Israeli occupation withdrew from our old neighborhood on 23 December last year, my brother Yassen ran toward our home from al-Daraj, driven by an unstoppable urge to see if it had survived. The rest of us waited in a United Nations shelter in tense silence, hearts hollow with fear and uncertainty, clinging to the fragile hope that he would bring back good news.
Haunting landscape
When he returned, the only words he said were, “May God compensate us.”
The nightmare I had tried to escape had become real. Our home was completely destroyed.
The trees in the garden were uprooted to make way for a playground for the occupation forces’ tanks.
Our home was not the only one destroyed. Most of the neighborhood’s houses were either destroyed or burned, leaving behind a haunting landscape of rubble. The massive destruction changed the area beyond recognition.
The air became thick with the smell of death and blood, overshadowing any remnants of hope.
In the face of such profound loss, we cling to our memories, nurturing the belief that one day our homeland will rise from the ashes. Though rubble now sits where our home once stood, we refuse to let despair take root as we now call a small apartment home.
Each story of laughter and love woven through generations strengthens us, reminding us we are seeds planted in this land, determined to grow anew.
We envision a future where children play beneath a tree planted in memory of those lost, where the scent of orange blossoms fills the air, showing that beauty can return even after devastation.
Our story is one of resilience and love that will not fade, as we will rebuild our homes and carry the memory of my mother and our neighbors forever in our hearts.
Shahad Ali is a writer and an English literature student at the Islamic University of Gaza.
