Asmaa Abu Matar
The Electronic Intifada / July 8, 2024
Many Palestinians in Gaza have been forced to try to leave the destruction in Gaza behind. Here, a woman stands in front of a bombed out house in Khan Younis in October 2023.
I hadn’t slept alone in my room since 7 October.
It wasn’t just the fear of the bombings that kept me from sleeping there; it was the thought of dying alone under the rubble if our house got bombed.
Every night, I took my pillow and blanket and slept in my parents’ room. Even though nowhere is safe from bombardment, I felt safest with them.
We always said to each other, “If we were to die, we would want to die together.” It was a somber thought, but being together made it feel a little less frightening.
One morning, my father approached me and hugged me tightly. I felt his tears on my shoulder.
“This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make,” he said, “but you have to leave Gaza for your future.”
His words pierced through me. I am so attached to my family that the idea of leaving them felt overwhelmingly heavy, especially during this trying time.
My friend Khaled left Gaza before me to get treated for leukemia. Despite his own struggles, he found the strength to encourage me.
“I know it’s hard,” he told me, “but you have to do this for your family. You have a bright future ahead of you.” His resilience gave me the courage to leave, even when it felt impossible.
Last night in Gaza
I gathered all the courage in my heart and tried to sleep alone in my room.
I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. There were no windows, just frames covered in nylon. All the glass had shattered from the intensity of nearby bombings.
Drones buzzed closer, like angry bees, stinging my mind with visions of death.
I was on the verge of sleep when my uncle Yousif called out with unexpected enthusiasm, “Asma, you’re traveling tomorrow.”
All the family gathered around me, hugging me and crying. I stood there in tears, unable to speak, unable to take it in.
While packing, my mother approached me, a mixture of joy and sorrow in her eyes.
“Take anything you have ever liked of my things,” she said, her voice trembling. “Keep me with you everywhere you go. You’re a part of me.”
My eyes were brimming with tears as I faced the daunting reality of leaving nearly everything behind, packing my life into just two handbags – one for my clothes and one for my books.
I could not leave without my books, especially Shakespeare plays and Dr. Refaat Alareer’s lecture notebooks.
Absorbing every detail
On the morning of 27 March, the artillery shelling was intense. We lived close to Gaza’s boundary with Israel.
I sat in the living room for the last time, gazing around at our house, each corner whispering memories of life beneath its walls at me.
It was more than just a house; it was a home, a repository of my dreams, my laughter, my tears.
I walked through the neighborhood I had grown up in for the past 21 years, meticulously absorbing every detail.
Even our neighbor’s house that got bombed, I can still vividly recall how it used to look.
I wished with all my heart that one day I would come back and find my home just the same.
My brother Muhammad insisted on coming with me to the last point at the border, despite his arm being broken after his body was crushed against a wall during a bombardment near him while he was out walking.
I reached the Rafah crossing border – now closed since Israel began its Rafah invasion in early May – in one piece; I had never seen it this close before.
I always dreamed of crossing that border to a new destination where I could continue my higher education. But not all dreams come true as we wish. I haven’t yet graduated, and there is no university left standing in Gaza to graduate from.
Hundreds of people were at the crossing waiting for their names to be called, their faces pale and hearts heavy, leaving Gaza behind.
They did not call us by our names, only coordination numbers. I was number 146.
My father rushed and hugged me tight, saying, “You are my rock, Asma. You’re a piece of me. I trust you. Keep making me proud as you always have.”
Bustling panic
After several hours of waiting, I boarded a bus heading to the Egyptian side.
Along the way, sandy, neglected land turned green. I even saw flowers. I gazed at the scenes from the bus window. The occupation hadn’t only killed us; it had turned our once fertile earth into barren wasteland.
Thousands of aid trucks lined the road as far as I could see.
People in Gaza were starving, desperate for food, yet none of this aid was reaching them.
I waited seven hours on the Egyptian side for the paperwork to be done. Then a bus took off for Cairo, carrying me toward an uncertain future, away from the war-torn home I loved.
I reached Cairo on 28 March. The huge, busy, bustling place overwhelmed me.
I panicked, covering my ears at the sound of cars rushing by, thinking they were missiles about to fall on me. For the past six months, all I had heard were drones and missiles targeting people. How could I convince my brain that there was no bombardment here?
Now, it is my third month in Cairo, and I still cannot cope with normal life outside Gaza.
I can still hear the faint echoes of explosions, the cries of neighbors and the drone of planes overhead.
Blurry path
I’m still afraid of getting bombed at night, I don’t feel safe away from my parents.
It is difficult to close my eyes and sleep normally; I cannot get Gaza out of my head.
My dreams are filled with the faces of my family, my friends and the streets I used to wander.
I made it out of Gaza to find a way to continue my academic journey, but all the paths seem blurry.
I survived physically, but my heart still aches with the memories of what I endured, and my soul longs desperately for Gaza and my family.
My family got displaced from Rafah to the middle area of Gaza, where bombardment is nonstop as well.
I barely can contact them, and I hope they stay alive.
I felt weak for weeks, but I will not let the psychological effects of war silence me. I will raise my voice and tell the world what I lived through.
I left Gaza, but Gaza will never leave me.
Asmaa Abu Matar is a writer and translator from Gaza
