How Israel displaced me six times during the genocide: A story from Gaza

Abdullah Hany Daher’s destroyed home in the Tal al-Zaatar neighborhood of nothern Gaza. January 2025. Photo Credit: Abdullah Hany Daher

On October 7, 2023 at 11:30 pm, Israeli occupation forces fired a missile at our neighbor’s home in Tel al-Zaatar in north Gaza. The explosion ripped through the night like a thousand screams, tearing the silence with a deafening roar. The windows shattered and a thick dust filled our home. My little brother's voice cracked as he realized what had happened.

Then the phone rang. A soldier's cold pitch reverberated, urging people to evacuate immediately. "Your house will be bombed." My father's hands shook when he hung up. We ran.

In the past 20 months, I’ve been displaced six times. Each time I was displaced, I lost not just a shelter, four walls and a roof, but the feeling of safety and bits of myself that I will never get back.

A few weeks later, in November 2023, we were forced out of our refuge in the north yet again by the Israeli army. We trekked for 10 days from al-Falluja to Rafah, the southernmost part of Gaza, sleeping on classroom floors, mosque courtyards and under the open sky.

Food was sparse and optimism ever sparser. One night, my mother attempted to extend a stale piece of bread by breaking it into three pieces. I lay on the cement that night and questioned the sky, "Are we still human, or simply numbers now?”

We eventually arrived at my grandfather's house in al-Falluja, but by December 2023, we had to evacuate again. From Al-Falluja to Gaza City via Khalil Al-Wazir Street. This was the worst of all. We spent twenty days at that location. Seven of them were without food and without fresh water. So we drank salty water, only quenching our thirst even more as it burned our throats like bombs scorching the earth.

There were no blankets or beds where we were sheltering in Gaza City—just our shivering bodies on the frigid floor. One night, I curled up in a corner and wondered if it was possible to disappear without dying.

Life without shelter was unbearable, so we returned home, despite the snipers stationed along the route waiting to execute us. I can still hear my father's voice saying, "Run. Don’t stop or look back,” he shouted. And so we ran as the bullets ripped through the silence. 

We returned to our home in Tel al-Zaatar in May 2024 not because it was safe but because we had nowhere else to go. The structure had been bombarded by Israeli occupation forces. The walls and roof were partially destroyed and there was shattered glass everywhere. We swept away the dust, rubble and debris and tried to pretend it was shelter. Of course, there was no running water, no electricity and no safety.

Soon enough, as fate would have it, Israel tanks invaded again, this time, to erase everything left. We were forced out again, carrying nothing but exhaustion. Now we had nothing left, not even the rubble of our own home. 

This time, we found shelter in my great uncle’s home in the Al-Nasr area in northwest Gaza, as they had been displaced to the south. We remained there for 40 days. 

Life went on, but nothing was normal. Children played with stones and rusting cans as if they were toys. Grown men sat quietly, staring at nothing. 

When we returned to our home in Tel al-Zataar in June, it had vanished. All that remained was rubble and ash. I grabbed a piece of rubble from the ground, but it disintegrated into dust. But we had nowhere else to go, so we set up a tent across from where our house once stood.

October returned, bringing with it fear. One morning, we awoke to gunshots, explosions, and tanks on all sides. Our neighborhood was under attack yet again, forcing us to remain in place. We clung together for four days, hoping for a miracle or a quick and painless death.

Then, finally, a moment of respite enabled us to flee. We rushed to al-Sahaba Street in the al-Sahaba neighborhood of Gaza City and found an empty apartment.

We stayed for four full months. Every night, I wrote in my notebook, "Maybe this is peace?" In those moments, peace wasn’t the return to a home or the end of war, but a fleeting moment of calm amidst constant displacement. It was simply the ability to breathe.

Finally, toward the end of April 2025, we returned to Tel al-Zaatar once more. We pitched a tent in the Rahma Camp, near the al-Jabal area. It wasn't much—but it was ours. We tried to restore some rhythm and routine to life.

 But then, once again, the occupation issued the order to depart on May 18. We now live in Al-Shati Camp, cramped into a small apartment belonging to relatives. Some nights, I lie at the window and watch the sea. But I no longer wonder if I will return home. I'm simply asking: "How much longer can a soul carry this weight?"

Even after all of this, I can still breathe. I still write. I still believe. One day, I'll return to a house where I will not be asked to leave. To a country that isn't burning beneath my feet. To a future in which children are not born with the sound of drones. Until then, I'll carry my home in my writings. I’ll incorporate elements of it into every sentence. I hope, with all my heart, that the earth will eventually cease shaking.

I count my displacements in terms of pain, not numbers. The pain of quiet when no one dares to speak. The pain of hunger that turns your body against you. The agony of wondering, "Will we survive this one?"