Najwa assar
I had stopped writing for a long time because I no longer believed that anyone in the world cared about what was happening to us. But recently, thoughts have been pressing on my mind, urging me to translate them into words and lines. Forgive me for the lack of focus and order in my thoughts, for the state we live in today is one of utter chaos.
April 26, 2024, the date I left Gaza with my husband and children—not out of hatred for Gaza, but out of love for life and in search of a better future for my children after we endured so much since October 7.
To those who accuse those who left Gaza of being cowards or traitors: we did not betray Gaza, but we were exhausted by the hardships, and we wanted to escape the feeling of helplessness, death, and oppression that haunts not only our souls but everything that ties us to this life. It haunts our feelings, dreams, memories, our children, and our days.
This was not an easy choice. I am fleeing from death into the unknown, into a new life where I have nothing—no friends, no neighbors, no memories, no past, and I don’t even know if there is a present.
I left my beautiful home, which took years and years to build. I loved every corner of it in its simplicity. I loved the ancient olive tree, which I felt was a spirit rooted in the earth, refusing to bow. I loved our date palm, gifted to us by my father-in-law—may God rest his soul. I loved the guava tree, and I loved even more my repeated attempts to plant different types of flowers, basil, and cacti.
My best mornings were on Fridays and Saturdays when I would wake up early to tend to my small garden, make a cup of instant coffee, and sit under the olive tree. I would feel like I owned the world.
Can you believe that I used to talk to the olive tree, always thanking it for its patience and generosity when it produced its wonderful crop of black and green olives? Did you know that I used to thank the date palm for producing small dates and eagerly awaited their ripening so I could pick a few each day on my way to work? Yes, I used to talk to them daily, touch their leaves, and feel that they listened to me and were happy with my words.
November 21, 2024, is the date that changed all those feelings. I miss everything about my home, but it has become a place filled with terrifying memories I no longer want to remember.
In the early hours of that morning, at exactly 4:30 a.m., we all woke up as if we were in a terrible nightmare. We woke up to the sound of shattering glass flying everywhere. There was a thick cloud of heavy dust mixed with stones and gunpowder—a smell that overwhelmed the senses. We didn’t know exactly what had happened; we only cared about checking on those in the house, where there were three families and many children. There was screaming, chaos, and a lot of smoke. We tried to open the door, but it was blocked by the rubble that had fallen from the neighbor’s house, which had been targeted.
In the blink of an eye, that large three-story house became rubble over the heads of its residents.
Did you know that in that moment, 50 people representing four generations were killed while they slept peacefully in that house? The youngest was less than two weeks old, and the oldest was eighty years old. Did you know that after that, I hated going out into my garden because the scene had changed from a beautiful house with wonderful trees and many flowers to rubble, debris, and the dead?
Did you know that the olive tree in my garden lost half of its branches from the force of the explosion? And that I hated looking at it after that and stopped talking to it?
Did you know that the scent of the air, which was once filled with the fragrance of lemon blossoms, had changed and was now filled with the smell of corpses that had remained under the rubble for more than a week until they decomposed and their smell spread throughout the place?
Do you know how painful that was? How the feeling of helplessness, weakness, and oppression can be deadly and heavy?
The scene of that large, beautiful house turned into one that held nothing but death, sorrow, and loss, and I hated going out into my garden. I hated my home, I hated the street, I hated everything, so I chose to leave the place.
English
Español
Deutsch
Français
العربية