My dad refuses to be forced out of his home

My family recently made the heart-wrenching decision to leave their home in Jabalia in Northern Gaza. 

The Israeli bombardment and ground offensive in their neighbourhood had intensified to a point where staying became impossible.

So, they headed south for Gaza City, each step taking them further from the life they knew, from the walls that had witnessed so many years of their lives. 

As I tried to support them from my home in London, my relatives described feeling as if they were leaving pieces of themselves behind, not knowing if they would ever see their home again. 

This wasn’t just saying goodbye to a house –  they were leaving behind memories, joys, heartaches, and all the small things that made it their sanctuary. 

But one piece of the family remained: my father. He has simply refused to leave.

My father is 78 years old. He’s already endured more displacements than most people could imagine, beginning with the Nakba, the mass expulsion of Palestinians from their homes following the creation of the State of Israel in 1948, when he was just a baby. 

Back then, he fled with his parents and siblings from our family home in Hujj, which was lost in the wave of violence that forever altered our homeland. 

That single act of forced exile has shaped generations of Palestinians. My father grew up not in a home, but in a tent, knowing little stability and even less peace. 

The trauma of my father’s first displacement, of being made a stranger in his own homeland, has woven itself into the fabric of our family’s story.

It’s the trauma of the past but here we are in the present, decades later, faced with the same nightmare of leaving everything behind. My father, though, couldn’t bear to do it again.

Over the phone from the UK, I listened to his resolve. 

Dad told me he would stay to protect the home he built, unable to part with a life he had poured so much into. ‘I can’t live in a tent again,’ he said, his voice low but steady. ‘I can’t do it.’ 

His words carried the weight of so many memories, so many years of survival and sacrifice. 

I tried to imagine the turmoil within him, having already endured so much, now standing in defiance against yet another tragedy, unwilling to let go.

Gen Itzik Cohen, Brigadier General of the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF) has also said that Palestinians in Northern Gaza won’t be allowed to return home, leaving people like my father in limbo, rooted to the land that has shaped their very identity. 

This appears to be a version of the ‘Generals’ Plan’, which involves giving civilians a deadline to leave Gaza or risk being labelled a combatant. 

My father has poured his heart and soul into his home, his family, and the land — and is now forced to choose between the unknown or being branded a threat simply for staying. 

Holding on, amidst such destruction, is an act of defiance and dignity, a belief that the connection to his land is too sacred to abandon, no matter the cost.

As my family made their way to Gaza City, they had to pass through an Israeli checkpoint. 

There, soldiers separated the men from the women, forcing the men into a pit they had dug in the schoolyard. 

My nephew recounted how the soldiers screamed at them, cursed them, and beat them. 

Some were allowed to go, but others were taken to unknown locations, leaving families in agony. 

Hearing this, my mind flashed back to my mother’s stories from the 70s. She told me how, back then, soldiers would gather all the men in the neighbourhood, forcing them into a rainwater pit and threatening to kill them

These horrors aren’t new. They’ve shadowed us since the Nakba, and now we’re experiencing them with what we feel is genocidal intensity. 

Yet, the world watches, seemingly unmoved, as if our suffering were some tragic but distant story. 

When I was younger, my grandmother would tell me about Hujj.

As a child, I didn’t fully grasp what it meant to lose everything. But now, watching the destruction and displacement in Gaza over the past 13 months, I feel the weight she carried all those years.

Sometimes, I wonder if we ever truly moved on from 1948. 

Yet somehow, we found a way to build a life in Gaza. 

Despite the fear, we poured our hearts into creating a community rich with culture and heritage. We turned refugee camps into towns, built cultural centres, cafes, and museums, each brick an act of resilience. 

I remember the beaches where my sisters and I laughed and played, the restaurant where I’d go for my favourite fish, the bustling souk where I helped my mother.

We carved out happiness in the face of hardship, creating a life as vibrant as the spirit of Gaza itself.

But here we are again, trapped in what feels like an endless cycle, reliving the Nakba over and over. Every time we build something beautiful, every time we dare to dream, it’s torn from us. 

How am I supposed to say goodbye to the places I grew up in and are a part of my story? How can I let go of a life that ties me to my family, my roots, my history?

As I sit thousands of miles away from Gaza, I wonder how the world sees us Gazans. Do they see us as people with dreams, with memories, with lives that matter? Or are we just numbers, our pain diluted into statistics on a screen?

We are human beings. We have dreams, we have stories, and we love fiercely, just like anyone else. 

And yet, it feels like we’re destined to watch everything we love torn away from us, time and time again. 

It’s a grief too deep to express, a heartbreak too endless to heal. And through it all, people like my father remain defiant. 

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