Measuring Return to Gaza

In her first book from Gaza, former blogger Amal Murtaja described daily life in the war. The second dispatch closed with news that he had managed to escape to Egypt and its children. Murtaja, who taught English at Gaza’s American International School, wrote this from Giza, outside Cairo..

As a potential ceasefire loomed, the news was a jumble of conflicting reports. It was so disturbing, especially for most of my friends and relatives who were in Gaza, that I stopped following carefully. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Then, two days ago, my WhatsApp notifications went crazy. I knew something was up. I turned on the TV and saw the news about the ceasefire. A wave of confusion washed over me, and tears quickly followed.

The memories of Eman, my brother’s wife, and my nephews, Omar and Zaid, who we lost in October, scared me. Zaid would have turned 5 this year, and Omar 6. I imagined my burnt house, where I lived many happy days, and my destroyed school, where I built a second family with my colleagues, and healthy classrooms now turned into rubble. I envisioned my parents’ house, the last source of safety and love. These images of what once was—and now exists only as a memory—filled my mind. Any joy that the cessation of conflict might have brought felt suffocated, buried even by these emotions.

The past 15 months—even though they have felt like years—have been incredibly challenging. Adapting to a new environment and navigating a slightly different culture has been difficult, not only for me but for Mohammed and Ali as well. Even now, I often find myself staring out the window, asking, “Where am I?” Egypt is undeniably a beautiful place, and the people are warm and loving, and even though I have become more familiar with it, it still feels strange to me, like a place I live in but not yet a part of.

I was trying to settle down, establish a new routine, learn the streets, and get to know my neighbors. But this new life, which I am forcing myself to get used to, does not feel like my previous life in Gaza. Nothing feels right. I keep comparing everything around me to Gaza. Gaza was a small city with limited resources, yet “it was enough.” People, family, friends, food, history, memories—they make it a place to live.

A small horse club where I took Mohammed and Ali every Friday, the smile on my children’s faces every time they rode a horse was enough. The three-story mall with its small shops and the familiar faces of the shopkeepers was enough. A food court with only 5 restaurants, where I taught Mohammed, at the age of 7, how to order food by himself, that first person who hesitated “Excuse me, sir…” followed by his beaming smile—those moments, those simple pleasures, were enough. The holy month of Ramadan and the feasts we shared with our family and friends, the table full of fragrant dishes, the anticipation of breaking our fast together, the laughter and warmth that filled the room—that was enough. The busy streets during Eid, the symphony of colors and sounds, visiting our relatives and friends, the joy of my children as they insisted on spreading their new clothes on their beds the night before, eager to wear them at dawn—these simple joys were enough. Parties, my best friends and I always threw, whenever the school pressured us, to release the spirit and feel stressed by criticizing the school system together laughing until our sides hurt, those were the nights that built bonds. that was really important. Now, I don’t remember the last time I saw all my friends together, and it’s not often that I see those who reached Egypt, we are scattered in the vastness of this land. I miss them all so much; they are really like family to me. Egypt is interesting, but “not enough.” And the words keep whispering in my ears, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Life in Egypt has not been kind to us, and we have had more than our share of problems. Not having a resident here has created major obstacles in our efforts to rebuild and move forward. It has prevented us from accessing basic opportunities and what one would call “life.” After searching for a month, I finally found a school willing to accept Mohammed and Ali without residency. But because we don’t have the right books, they won’t get year-end certificates. While I appreciate that they are reading, I am disappointed to know that there is no official record to show for it.

Despite my teaching experience of 12 years, I have not yet found a job here, years of dedication and love, seem to have no weight in this country yet. My husband Ramadan also could not start a business. He was able to join us in April, which really felt like a miracle. If he was just one day late crossing the border, he would still be stuck there. Our son Ali, three at the time, clung to Ramadan’s glowing neck and said, “Dad, what took you so long?” and Mohammed stood in the corner in disbelief before bursting out, hugging Ramadan, crying. The memory still brings a lump to my throat. Starting over is a must for us but let me tell you—it’s incredibly difficult.

Despite all these challenges and obstacles, there is no way for me and my family to come back. We lost everything—our house was completely burnt down, my mother-in-law’s house, my parents’ house, my husband’s business premises and my school. We lost everything, so going back is not an option for me. The sounds of the bombings still ring in my ears, a constant reminder of the life we ​​once knew. The Palestinian people in Egypt have been crying for return, some want to return tomorrow and others like me have lost everything and see it as impossible. I mean, we have the same desire—if we want to start over, we would like to do so in a safe and healthy environment for ourselves and our children, especially since there is no absolute guarantee that another war may break out at any time. . I am 35 years old, and my husband is 37 years old. I can’t risk losing many years of my life in a city where everything can be lost in an instant.

You know, we have been through several wars before, but this is the most brutal and destructive. We didn’t have to leave our homes during any of the previous wars, and we didn’t suffer such losses. I feel like I’m letting my friends down when I ask them in WhatsApp groups how they are doing. Their suffering bothers me. I feel like texting them to inquire about their well-being from the comfort of my home, while they’re taking refuge in a tent or group shelter, is a betrayal. I always tell them I feel for them, and I really do, but I know that deep down they wish you were away from the bloodshed and horror. They all have nothing to lose now, just like me. None of them have their homes, and all have lost a relative or a loved one. We also lost several friends we know and love. All of them are fed up with everything that is happening, they are tired, and they have lost their love for life. It is as if they have forgotten what happiness is. Believe it or not, the news of the ceasefire was not as exciting as you had hoped. It is joy mixed with fear, sadness and uncertainty. They were all saying things like,

The conversation was long and full of sarcasm, a wicked laugh at our shared struggle. They have no knowledge of the future like I do. They are divided between those who want to leave and leave everything behind, those who wish to leave but are too broken to do so and those who are already in Egypt who want to return, and those who will return to their homes regardless of what happens. circumstances.

Most of the Gazans in Egypt have decided to return. As I said, life in Egypt was not easy, since we do not have residence permits, which prevent us from moving freely, and for financial reasons. Whatever money people were saving is almost gone. Some people immigrate to countries like Australia, Canada, and others around the world, and they wish to return. Gaza may be small but Gaza is enough.

War has robbed us of all our lives – figuratively and literally – our aspirations for the future, and our will to live. Now, we are all in a situation of survival, whether in Gaza or outside. We are equally struggling and trying to rebuild our lives, we are all equally confused and don’t know what is right and what is wrong for the next phase of our lives. We all feel trapped, we can’t find a way out of this cycle of consuming thoughts about our future and the lives of our children.

The thought of me not coming back breaks my heart. I never thought I would ever leave my hometown. Memories, vivid and painful keep flashing in my eyes, and I just can’t help but cry. Even if I came back, it wouldn’t be the same. The reverberations of the war would linger, a constant reminder of the lives we had lost. The real battle begins now. Since everyone doesn’t know what to do with their life. Not knowing which decision is the right decision. Everything we think is right and wrong. We are lost in a sea of ​​doubt, despair and uncertainty.

So I’ll end with this fragile promise, I might not be back now, or in the next few years, but I’m sure I’ll be back one day.