It has been ten months since my family left Gaza, but we continue to live with the loss, pain and impact of the war in all its excruciating detail.
This month – just before the anniversary of the start of the conflict – we experienced the most harrowing eight hours we have experienced in that time.
We received a video message from my wife’s cousin in Gaza saying: “The tanks are surrounding us and shooting at us. These could be the last moments of our lives.
‘Pray for us and do everything to save us.’
My wife collapsed, she even lost consciousness: her uncle, aunts and their families – 26 people in total – were all attacked.
Israeli raids and advances on towns and villages across Gaza – targeting Hamas – have been common for most of this year.
We didn’t hear from them for hours. They were bombed all the time. Then, finally, a spoken comment: ‘Four people were injured. Your Aunt Wafaa is bleeding, her condition is critical.”
I made countless calls to the Red Cross, the Palestinian Red Crescent, anyone who could help.
After eight hours, the Israeli army finally allowed them to evacuate and move the wounded on foot.
But it was too late for Wafaa: she succumbed to her injuries shortly after reaching the hospital.
We still have so many relatives in Gaza. My father lives there in a tent in the southern town of Khan Younis, which was bombed again this week.
I am often overcome with guilt when I call him from Istanbul, where I have fled with my wife and two children.
There are so many people like me, in Turkey, Egypt and beyond – Britain, the US, Europe – where we had to go to find safety.
Not everyone can get out, only those who have enough money to pay the high costs of passage elsewhere.
But in Egypt alone, more than 100,000 Gazans have moved south into the country since November.
They are not directly threatened there by the Israeli bombs. But many are struggling to feed their families, educate their children and simply restore the basics of a normal life.
In a bustling open-air cafe in Cairo’s Nasr City, dozens of newly arrived refugees sit together in small groups, puffing on hookahs and sharing stories about their homeland.
They try to ease the pain of longing for those who are not with them at the moment. They continue to hope that the war will end soon and that they can return. But there is a constant fear.
A loud traditional Palestinian song plays from the speakers: a hit by the Palestinian singer Mohammed Assaf, who won the Arab Idol competition a few years ago.
“Go through Gaza and kiss the sand. The people are brave and the men are strong.”
58-year-old Abu Anas Ayyad is among those sitting there listening. In his previous life he was known as the ‘King of the Gravel’, a successful businessman who had supplied building materials to construction sites throughout Gaza.
He and his family – including four children – escaped. But: “Every rocket that hits a building in Gaza feels like a piece of my heart shatters.
“I still have family and friends there,” he says.
“This could all have been prevented. But Hamas has a different opinion.”
He regrets the attack by the Iran-backed group in Israel on October 7, 2023 and the consequences now.
“Despite my love for Gaza, I will not return if Hamas remains in power,” he says. He does not want his children “to be used as pawns in a dangerous game played by reckless leaders in the interests of Iran.”
Nearby sits Mahmoud Al Khozondr, who had run his family’s famous hummus and falafel shop in Gaza before the war. It is an institution in the area, known for its food and celebrities. The late Palestinian President Yasser Arafat had been a frequent patron and was often seen at his tables.
Mahmoud shows me photos of his former, well-furnished family home on his phone. They now live in a cramped two-room apartment. His children cannot go to school.
“It’s a miserable life,” he says. “We lost everything at home. But we have to get back up,” he says.
“We need food for our children and help for our people still in Gaza.”
Living in exile in Egypt is not easy. The authorities have allowed the Palestinians to stay temporarily, but are not granting official residence permits. They limit access to education and other important services.
Many Gazans try to send money back to support relatives still in Gaza – but the costs of transferring money are high and war traders get a 30% cut.
“It is heartbreaking to see how profit is made from the suffering of our loved ones,” says Mahmoud Saqr.
He had an electronics store in Gaza. Today, he has to take a bundle of cash to a store in Cairo to transfer money to his sister.
“There’s no receipt, no proof, just a message hours later confirming they received the money,” he says, describing the process.
“It is risky because we don’t know who is involved in this transaction, but we have no choice.”
These are desperate times for everyone.
Over the past year I have tried in vain to create a peaceful environment for my family in Turkey.
But every time we go to a restaurant, my children reminisce about their favorite places in Gaza, their big house, their game store, their friends at the horse club, their classmates.
Some of those classmates were killed in the Israeli airstrikes, which continue today.
But since October 7, time has stood still for us. From that day on we have to move on.
We may have escaped physically, but our souls and hearts remained connected to our loved ones in Gaza.
