Noor Alyacoubi
Mondoweiss / February 7, 2025
As Palestinians return to what remains of their homes, they find that they are no longer the places they left behind, because the ones they love the most are gone.
The joy of homecoming in Gaza is fading as people have begun to grasp the harsh new reality of their city. For nearly a year and a half, their only concern was the end of the war and the dream of returning home. Now, they are met with a different struggle —rebuilding from nothing.
“Believe me, I no longer care about food,” my maternal aunt told me as her son arrived home clutching a relief aid coupon he had received yesterday. The scene struck me as deeply ironic. Hadn’t we once spent entire days and nights longing for just a morsel to eat? Yet now, food seemed almost insignificant compared to the overwhelming need for shelter and stability.
My aunt, Um Tareq, spent fourteen months displaced in the south, moving from one place to another in search of safety. On Monday, after an exhausting journey on foot, she finally made it back to Gaza City. But home was no longer the place she had left behind.
Her house in the Karama neighbourhood was gone, reduced to rubble by relentless Israeli bombardment. Now, she has no choice but to take refuge in a temporary 70-square-meter apartment. Under its roof, she is living alongside her husband, five sons, her married son and his wife, and four grandchildren — all crammed into a space too small for so many lives.
“We can make do with whatever food we have,” she said, her voice weary yet firm. “What we truly need is a real home, a place where we can settle.”
Despite her gratitude for having survived and returned with her family, the weight of starting over is heavy.
“This shelter is temporary and won’t be enough for all of us in the long run. We’ll have to find something else,” she explained.
But she is adamant about one thing: they do not want temporary solutions. “We don’t want tents or caravans. And we don’t even want anyone to build homes for us,” she said resolutely. “Just give us cement and stone blocks, and we will rebuild our homes with our own hands.”
Beyond losing their home, Um Tareq’s family also lost their livelihood. Their library — once a source of income and knowledge — was engulfed in flames after an Israeli missile struck, reducing years of hard work to ashes. And yet, even in loss, she remains steadfast.
“They will start again,” she said with quiet determination. “They will build something bigger, something even more successful.”
My maternal uncle, Hani, came back home two days ago. I also visited him to welcome him back and offer condolences. He lost his son in October 2023. After his son’s martyrdom, he and his family were displaced to the south.
I was shocked by my 60-year-old uncle’s new appearance — his skin darkened, his features hardened into a perpetual frown, and his body thin and frail. He looked burdened by the loss of his son and exhausted from the 13-kilometer journey he had undertaken on foot. He seemed lost.
After struggling in southern Gaza’s tents, he and his family returned to Gaza City only to face new hardships — struggling to find water and the very basics of life. “Since we arrived home, we have done nothing but clean the house from dust, broken windows, and rubble,” he said. “The water tanks on the roof are damaged by the Israeli shelling.”
Living on the fifth floor makes it extremely difficult for my uncle and his sons to carry water from the ground floor. “Municipal water pipes are only open on Mondays. We have to wait until next Monday to use water,” he explained. “I even told my wife not to wash clothes or dishes or anything. Just sweep off the dust until we can get water.”
“Forgive us, Noor, we still don’t have anything to offer for hospitality,” he said in an apologetic tone.
They didn’t have gas either. “We walked the entire way on foot, so we couldn’t carry any gas cans with us. And now, we feel lost, unsure of where to begin,” he said.
They also don’t have electricity, as there are no batteries or any other source of electricity in Gaza.
Take the house and give me back my son
Though finding a home amidst the massive destruction in Gaza is a painful challenge, the agony of losing a loved one is incomparable.
“I wish they had taken my house and everything I own but left my son,” my uncle’s wife said, recalling how every corner of their home reminded her of her son, Ahmad.
“May God have mercy on him. We returned home only to be stunned at how everything was neatly arranged as if he didn’t want us to struggle,” she said.
“He had covered the broken windows with nylon sheets, cleaned the house from the remnants of our neighbour’s bombed home, and tidied up everything as if he were waiting for us to return,” she sobbed. “He had even filled the rooftop tanks with both cleaning and drinking water.”
“We found the fridge stocked with biscuits and snacks he had bought for his wife and three young daughters before he was martyred,” she continued, voice breaking. “Toys, clothes — everything was still there. He had planned to surprise them, but he never got the chance.”
Ahmad was killed months ago in an Israeli airstrike on the Tabeen Mosque in October 2024, leaving his family without a final farewell. His father had also died just two weeks before his martyrdom, with no opportunity for them to see each other one last time.
“I wish Ahmad were still alive,” she wept. “I wish I had lost everything else, but not him.”
Noor Alyacoubi is a translator and writer based in Gaza
