Moved Palestinians wear their possessions while they walk in the midst of the destruction on their return to Central Rafah in the southern Gaza Strip on January 19, 2025. Credit – Bashar Taleb – AFP/Getty Images
In her first letter from Gaza, the former blogger Amal Murtaja described the daily life at war. A second shipping concluded with the news she had succeeded in escaping Unpleasant Egypt with her children. Murtaja, who taught English at the American international school of Gaza, wrote this from Giza, outside of Cairo.
As the potential cease-fire approaches, the news was a whirlwind of conflicting reports. It was so nerve -racking, especially with most of my friends and family members who are still in Gaza, that I honestly stopped following it closely. I didn’t want to get my hope. Then, two days ago, my WhatsApp reports went crazy. I knew something happened. I turned on the TV and saw the news of the ceasefire. A wave of ambivalence rinsed over me and the tears followed immediately.
Memories of Eman, the wife of my brother and my nephews, Omar and Zaid, whom we lost in October, overwhelmed me. ZAID would have turned 5 this year, and Omar 6. I introduced myself to my burnt house, where I lived so many happy days, and my demolished school, where I built a second family with my colleagues, and the lively classrooms that now into a rubble were reduced. I introduced my parents’ house, the ultimate source of safety and love. These images of what was once was – and now only existed as a memory – brought my mind. Any joy that ceases -the Fire can be minimized, even overshadowed by these emotions.
The past 15 months – although they have felt for years – have been incredibly challenging. Adapting to a new environment and navigating a slightly different culture was difficult, not only for me, but also for Mohammed and Ali. Even now I notice that I often stare out the window and ask, “Where am I?” Egypt is undoubtedly a beautiful place, and the people are warm and loving, and although I have become more familiar with it, it still feels strange, like a place where I live, but not yet a part of it.
I tried to settle, set up a new routine, learn the streets and get to know my neighbors. But this new life, which I force myself to get used to it, feels nothing like my previous life in Gaza. Nothing feels good. I continue to compare everything around me with Gaza. Gaza was a small city with limited resources, but it was “enough”. The people, the family, the friends, the food, the history, the memories – they made it a place of connectedness.
The small equestrian club where I took Mohammed and Ali every Friday, the smile on the faces of my children every time she rode a horse, was enough. The three -storey shopping center with its small shops and the familiar faces of the shopkeepers was enough. The Food Court with only 5 restaurants, where I taught Mohammed at the age of 7, how to order a meal alone, that first hesitant “Excuse me, Mr …” followed by his radiant smile – those moments, those simple pleasures, were enough. The Holy Month of Ramadan and the parties that we shared with our family and friends, loaded the table with fragrant dishes, the expectation to break our fasts together, the laughter and the warmth that the room filled – they were enough. The bustling streets during Eid, a symphony of colors and sounds that our family members and friends visit, the excitement of my children while they were putting their new clothes on their beds the night before, enthusiastic to wear them when cracking Dawn – these simple pleasures were sufficient. The parties, my best friends and I threw every now and then, when the school stressed us, to let some steam and feel less stressed by criticizing the school system together. That really mattered. Now I can’t remember that the last time I saw all my friends together, and I rarely see those who have reached Egypt, we are spread over the vastness of this country. I miss them all enormously; They are really for me as a family. Egypt is fascinating, but not ‘enough’. And continue to whisper voices in my ears: “You don’t fit in.”
Life in Egypt has not been nice for us and we have had more than our part of the battle. Having residence here has created huge barriers in our attempt to rebuild and move forward. It has prevented us from gaining access to basic opportunities and what one could call ‘life’. After a month of searching I finally found a school that was willing to accept Mohammed and Ali without residence. But because we do not have good documentation, they do not receive end -of -year certificates. Although I am grateful that they are learning, it is discouraging that there is no official record to show it.
Despite my 12 years of educational experience, I have not been able to find a job here, years of dedication and passion, seem to have no weight in this country. My husband Ramadan has not been able to start a business either. He managed to come to us in April, which frankly felt a miracle. If he had crossed the border only one day late, he would still be stuck there. Our son Ali, three at the time, clung to Ramadan’s neck and said, “Dad what lasted so long?” And Mohammed was unbelieving in the corner before he erupted and hugging Ramadan, crying. The memory still brings a lump in my throat. From starting over again, we are forced, but let me tell you – it is incredibly difficult.
Even with all these challenges and obstacles there is no way for my family and me to return. We have lost everything, the house has completely burned down, the house of my mother-in-law, my parents’ house, the place of my husband and my school is closed. We have lost everything, so returning is not an option for me. The echoes of the bomb attacks still sound in my ears, a constant memory of the life we ​​once knew. Palestinians in Egypt are pronounced about return, with some who want to return tomorrow and others, as I have lost everything and find it impossible. I mean, we share the same desire – if we wanted to start again, we would like to do this in a safe and healthy environment for ourselves and our children, especially because there is no absolute guarantee that another war can burst out at any time. I am 35, and my husband is 37. I cannot run the risk of losing more years of my life in a city where everything is possible, and will most likely be lost in an instant.
You know, we have experienced different wars before, but this one is the most malignant and devastating. We never had to leave our houses during one of the previous wars, and we never experienced such a significant loss. I really feel that I have betrayed my friends when I ask them in the WhatsApp group how they are. Their suffering is haunting me. I feel like sending them a message to inquire about their well -being from the comfort of my house, while taking refuge in a tent or a group shelter, is a betrayal. I keep telling them that I feel for them, and I really do that, but I know they want them to be far away from this bloodshed and horror. They all have nothing to lose, just like me. None of them still has their houses intact, and they all have suffered the loss of a family member or a loved one. We have also lost a few friends we know and that we love. They are all so tired of what happens, worn out, that they have even lost their passion for life. It is as if they have forgotten how happiness feels. Believe it or not, it ceases -the -fires news did not act as you would expect. It is happiness mixed with fear, sadness and uncertainty. They all said things like,
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“Yes, whatever, we just want this to be over.”
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“I hope it is true this time.”
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“I hope none of the parties breaks the agreement.”
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“The only thing we have won is survival; except that we were the true victims.”
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“I just have no idea what the right thing is to do? Repair my house or leave Gaza or just wait? “
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“I am too tired to think, I just want peace and quiet and I want to return to my house.”
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‘Guys, I am not’ very ‘happy. Is this normal? “
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“As soon as the border is opened, I come from this Helgat.”
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“We are all happy that we made it alive.”
The conversation was long and filled with sarcasm, grim laughter in our shared battle. They are just as no idea of ​​the future as me. They are divided between those who want to travel and leave everything behind, and those who want to travel, but are too brutal to do this and those who are already in Egypt and want to return, and those who will return to their houses, regardless of the, regardless of the from conditions.
Most Gazans in Egypt have decided to return. As I said, life in Egypt has not been easy, given that we do not miss a residence permits, so we do not limit themselves to move freely, and of course the financial reasons. Whatever money people had saved, is almost ready. Some people emigrated to countries such as Australia, Canada and others around the world, and even they desire to return. Gaza may be small, but Gaza is enough.
War has already stripped us – both figuratively and literally – from our ambitions for the future, and from our desire to live. Now we are all in survival mode, whether in Gaza or Out. We are also struggling and trying to rebuild our lives, we are all a bit stunned and have no idea what is good and what is wrong about the next phase in our lives. We all feel trapped, unable to find a way out of this spiral of consuming thoughts about our future and the lives of our child.
The thought that I will not return breaks my heart. I never thought I would ever leave my hometown. Memories, staying lively and painful through my eyes, and I just can’t help it, but cry. Even if I returned, it would not be the same. The war -like war would linger, a constant memory of the life we ​​had lost. The real war starts now. Where everyone does not know what to do with their lives. Do not know which decision is the correct decision. Everything we think is both right and wrong. We are lost in a sea of ​​doubt, despair and uncertainty.
So I will end this fragile promise, I may not come back now, or for the coming years, but I am sure I will go back one day.
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