11 November 2025
This story was originally published by The New Humanitarian.
After nearly two months of displacement, I have returned to Gaza City. Around me, everything is in ruins, but I am glad to be home.
I kept a diary for The New Humanitarian in August and September, documenting my family’s attempt to resist being forced from Gaza City by Israel’s assault and invasion. But, as soldiers and drones closed in on the neighbourhood where we were staying and our supplies ran low, like hundreds of thousands of others, we eventually had no choice but to flee.
Since then, I have been living in a tent in a crowded displacement camp in Nuseirat in the middle area of the Gaza Strip, where problems caused by the war and Israel’s blockade on aid and supplies never stopped knocking on our door.
Still, even after the ceasefire between Hamas and Israel was announced on 9 October, returning to Gaza City has been a slow process for me and many other people. One of the main reasons is because people fear that Israel will violate the agreement, like it did last March, and resume its war.
The destruction of roads poses another barrier, hindering people’s movement, and since the time we were forced to leave, Israel has systematically demolished residential buildings. Before the latest offensive began in August, much of Gaza City was already damaged. Now, entire neighbourhoods have been erased, and it’s hard to find a building that has not been damaged.
People who have lost their homes have nothing to return to. Above all, Israel still controls 53% of the Gaza Strip and is preventing residents from returning to those areas.
As for me, I lost my home early in the war, in November 2023, when it was completely demolished. Since then, I have been moving between the homes of relatives and friends, until I finally ended up in the tent in Nuseirat.
I hesitated to return to Gaza immediately after the ceasefire announcement, waiting for my husband to find a suitable new home. With great difficulty, he managed to find a small apartment of 100 square metres for a monthly rent of $1,000. Before the war, rent for larger and more beautiful apartments did not exceed $300 a month.
Now, it’s rare to find an intact apartment, and our new one is far from ideal. Its walls are cracked and its ceiling fractured – just like most, if not all, apartments that survived total destruction in the city.
My husband has worked tirelessly over the past few weeks to restore the place. With the help of a few labourers and craftsmen, he built wooden and nylon walls. The sewage system doesn’t work, so the only solution was to dig a cesspit. This is how Palestinians in Gaza cope with the problem of destroyed infrastructure.
“Is this our last displacement?”
We chose 11 November as the day we would return to Gaza City. I woke up early that morning in my tent, took a deep breath. “Today is the last day in the tent,” I said to myself.
Living in a tent is pure bitterness. Thousands of families in Gaza are still forced to live in them, facing an uncertain future after losing their homes. They are now bracing for the harsh winter ahead. Tents get flooded, nights become unbearably cold, and children fall sick. Israel is also still not allowing enough supplies for shelters into Gaza.
Fully aware of how fortunate I was to be moving to a home, I began packing our belongings – the same few items that had followed us from one displacement to another: food, clothes, hygiene items, blankets, and mattresses.
My children helped me pack. My 13-year-old daughter, Saida, asked, “Mom, is this our last displacement?” I replied, “Yes, we won’t leave Gaza again.”
Many people around me believe the war will resume, that the Israeli army will again force people out of their homes and tents in Gaza City and push them south. They are firmly convinced that Hamas will not agree to disarm, as demanded by Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and US President Donald Trump.
As for me, I believe the war will not return, especially since Hamas handed over all the living Israeli hostages it had held during the war. More than a belief, perhaps this is a hope I hold closer than anything else.
While I was busy packing my children’s clothes, my neighbour Halima visited me. She is a 42-year-old mother of four whose tent is near mine in the camp in Nuseirat. She lost her eldest son, who was 15, in an Israeli airstrike. Halima is from Rafah, in southern Gaza, which has been turned into rubble. The Israeli army still is not allowing residents to return, even after the ceasefire.
Halima entered my tent with a faint smile and look of shock on her face. “Is the rumour true? Are you really returning to Gaza City?” Halima was like a sister to me during these months of displacement. We shared countless moments of pain and fleeting joy together in the camp. “Yes, Halima, I’m leaving. I’m going back to Gaza,” I told her.
“How does it feel to be returning to your hometown?” she asked. I could sense in her voice an overwhelming longing for Rafah. “The war doesn’t truly end until you return to your city,” I replied. “What’s the point of a ceasefire if we’re still displaced and homeless?”
“They turned Rafah into rubble. There isn’t a single home fit for living,” she replied.
Before the war, Rafah was home to about 270,000 people. Now, all of those residents are displaced in camps and shelters outside the city. While speaking with Halima, I felt an overwhelming sense of how lucky I am to not have to remain displaced.
A new home, amid the ruins
My husband rented a small truck to transport us to Gaza City. We loaded everything we owned onto it. Many of my neighbours in the camp came to say goodbye. One of them said, “Don’t forget to visit us.”
I will never forget them. We shared long, exhausting days of displacement, baking bread and preparing food for our children together.
The drive north to our new home was a testament to everything we have endured during this war. Houses on both sides of the road were destroyed. Their residents now live in tents pitched in front of the ruins of their homes. “Is this resilience and determination to stay, or is it simply the only choice left?” I asked myself.
My thoughts were interrupted by the jolts of the truck as it bounced along the rough, uneven road – like wrinkles etched into Gaza’s face. The beach to the left was still beautiful. Fishing boats lay just a few metres from the shore, afraid to venture further into the sea lest they become targets for Israeli warships. The sandy shores, once lined with tourist resorts, are now home to makeshift diesel refineries billowing thick black smoke into the air since Israel restricts the entry of fuel.
When I arrived at our new home, I found it partially destroyed but livable. People in Gaza now believe that any house with solid support pillars and an intact roof is a paradise. The neighbourhood we moved into in the west of Gaza City used to host about 70 families before the war. Many fled to Egypt at the start of the war. Today, only 11 remain – those whose homes are still inhabitable. The rest were completely destroyed.
We began unloading the truck. I busied myself arranging our new home. Some of the inner walls were cracked, so I tried to hide the cracks with wall paintings. Bullet holes were scattered across the corridors. I stood before them, imagining the Israeli soldiers who had once been here, pouring their fury into everything around them.
Many thoughts still occupy my mind, the most important of which is securing education for my children. Before the war, this neighbourhood had six schools – elementary, preparatory, and secondary for both boys and girls. All were completely destroyed. Now, my children will have to walk at least two kilometres every day to reach the nearest school.
There are a number of educational initiatives being run out of tents that are attempting to restart some sort of education for children after two years of war, and a small number of government schools that were only partially destroyed will start classes at the beginning of December. All of these locations are severely overcrowded and will work in shifts to try to accommodate the number of students. It is not ideal, but some education for children is better than none.
Despite everything, I feel deeply happy to have finally returned to my city, Gaza. I only hope my family will finally find peace and stability, just like any other family in this world.
Edited by Eric Reidy.
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The New Humanitarian puts quality, independent journalism at the service of the millions of people affected by humanitarian crises around the world. Find out more at www.thenewhumanitarian.org.