Khaled El-Hissy
The Electronic Intifada / November 22, 2024
I have been haunted by survivor’s guilt ever since leaving Gaza for medical treatment in November 2023.
The feeling is relentless.
I try to shake it off through contacting my loved ones in northern Gaza.
They include my dear friend Yousef. I am trying to support him in whatever way possible.
That is far from easy: I am receiving chemotherapy, which leaves me exhausted and often stuck in a hospital bed.
On 17 December last year, I received a heart-wrenching message from Yousef. “My father was killed,” he told me.
“May he rest in peace,” I replied via WhatsApp. But the reply was never delivered.
I kept on sending messages.
Seven months passed without a single reply.
My hopes vanished. I began to assume that Yousef was no longer alive.
Finally, a message came through from him on 1 August this year.
Yousef told me how he had withdrawn from the world after his father’s killing.
He proceeded to tell me every detail about how his father was killed.
On 24 November 2023 – when the brief truce began – Yousef rushed out in search of his father. But he was appalled by the extensive destruction and the high number of martyrs in his neighbourhood.
Yousef searched among the corpses. He did not find his father.
But the next day, Yousef found out that his father had been killed in an Israeli drone strike.
As Yousef buried him, he was plunged into profound grief.
Once I was back in touch with Yousef again, I hoped that my messages would provide some solace. But I felt guilty that I could not be with Yousef.
I couldn’t even give him a hug.
With the massacres never stopping in northern Gaza, I feel bad that I am safe. Yousef, by contrast, is constantly in harm’s way.
I always hesitate before sending Yousef a message.
What can I ask him that isn’t painfully obvious?
“Hey Yousef,” I type on my phone. “How are you?”
My thumb hovers over the “send” option on my phone. I pause.
I remind myself that Yousef may not have eaten for days.
I remind myself that his father has been killed.
I remind myself that he has little contact with the outside world.
I remind myself that he faces death at any moment.
But I think, too, about how even though our daily realities are different, there is a connection between our struggles.
I, too, am unable to eat much. That is not because of Israel’s war against Gaza but because I am being treated for cancer.
Chemotherapy has meant that I often have hardly any appetite. The most I can manage some days is a few sips of soup and a few morsels of bread.
Flashback
My suffering is modest, compared to that of Yousef. And thinking about our shared struggles does not make my feelings of survivor’s guilt go away.
How can I forgive myself for leaving Gaza?
How can I forgive myself for leaving my father behind?
He is now in al-Mawasi, southern Gaza. He lives alone in a tent.
As an ophthalmologist, he chose to stay in Gaza so that he could tend to the injured. That decision speaks volumes about his character.
Every time the clock strikes 35 minutes past the hour I have a flashback.
I used to playfully tell my dad the time in an unnecessarily complicated way. I would say, “It’s two o’clock and a half and five minutes.”
My dad would narrow his eyes in feigned annoyance. “You know that you could just say 2.35?” he would reply.
I find myself replaying that conversation alone these days.
I wish that I had stayed with my dad. Maybe I will see him again soon – if Israel ever stops bombing Gaza.
When I was in hospital recently, a doctor came by to undertake a blood count.
I had a throbbing headache – a side effect of chemotherapy. The headache persisted after the doctor left.
I shifted slightly in the hospital bed. Small adjustments to the way I am lying down can reduce my headaches, I have found.
Then I took a peep at the notifications on my phone, checking what was happening in Gaza.
When I hastily read the first news item, there seemed to be an indication that the war against Gaza could stop.
My heart raced for a moment. But then I read the news again and realized that I had not understood it properly.
In truth, there was no sign that the war was about to end.
My headache got worse. Tears welled up in my eyes.
Once more I felt disappointed.
But I still cling to hope. One day, the war will end.
I still cling to hope that I will see Gaza again.
I long for Gaza.
I find myself comparing every moment of joy or comfort with what I had in Gaza.
Every time I visit a restaurant in Jordan, I ask if it is as good as those in Gaza. Every time I eat a meal, I ask if it is as delicious as the food was in Gaza.
Nothing compares to Gaza.
The atmosphere on the streets and in the markets.
The shawarma and the spices in it.
The crispiness of the falafel.
The taste of the fruit and vegetables.
The weather.
The people.
University life.
None of it compares to Gaza.
Shattered and erased
The Gaza I yearn for is gone. It has been shattered and erased by Israel.
Who among the next generations will remember the Gaza we once knew?
Duqqa is a condiment mixing nuts, spices and herbs. Outside Gaza, duqqa has no soul.
Who will remember the taste of our thyme and duqqa?
Who will remember a bountiful olive harvest? The golden olive oil?
Who will remember the sweet grapes of the Sheikh Ijleen neighborhood?
Who will remember the red pepper sandwiches and the fried sardines?
Sumaghiya is a beef and chickpea stew. Who will remember it?
Who will remember the falafel breakfasts?
Foul musabbaha is a variety of hummus. Who will remember buying foul musabbaha from a local kiosk?
Who will remember our bagels – known as kaak – being sold in the morning?
Who will remember our universities, our port in Gaza City, gatherings in our cafés, quiet moments on the beach?
I was raised in Gaza. Its soil runs through my veins.
I miss Gaza deeply. Nowhere else in the world could ever fill the void of longing inside me.
I love Gaza in an incomprehensible way, even though being there has caused me pain.
Maybe sometimes we were displeased with living in Gaza because of the harsh circumstances imposed on it.
But we never hated Gaza.
Our inspiring teacher Refaat Alareer said, “Sometimes when we tell stories about our homeland, we love that story because it is about our homeland. And we love our homeland even more because of the story.”
We have always loved Gaza. But now we love it even more because of the stories about our past.
One day, we will relive those stories.
Khaled El-Hissy is a journalist from Jabaliya in the Gaza Strip
