I spent 11 hours walking the road to north Gaza, the long road home. It was a journey I had been dreaming of for a year and four months.
The hike was long and hard: the road destroyed by tanks, bulldozers, and bombing. I saw an old man die along the way—his children crowded around him, trying to give him artificial respiration, calling for help from the air. There was a pregnant woman in tears, she said she had gone into premature labour from the pressure of the walk.
Seven kilometres in people ran out of drinking water. Some parents had lost their children and other family members in the huge crowds. There was no means of communication, as the area had no mobile signal, and transportation on this road was not permitted. After the elderly man died, a second appeared to slip into a coma from extreme fatigue. There were no ambulances working.
But still, people kept walking—a massive influx of people. Entire families, old and young, happy and excited, despite the length and difficulty of the road.
I had been displaced at the beginning of the war from Beit Lahia, my hometown in the far north of besieged Gaza. We had been forced to flee heavy bombardments multiple times: first to the centre, then south, and finally to the coast. An and so since the signing of the ceasefire agreement, which includes displaced Palestinians finally being permitted to return north, I had been counting the days, hours, and moments when I could go home.
I was extremely anxious and tense that the deal would fail or be suspended moments before we left. All my thoughts and preoccupations were focused on this time passing quickly. For seven days, I couldn’t sleep.
That morning—Monday, January 27—I had woken at 5 a.m. to the sound of cheers and tents being dismantled around me. News had just broken that Israel was finally going to permit the return of displaced people to north Gaza after they withdrew from the “Netzarim corridor,” which had been occupied by the Israeli military since the start of the war, effectively cutting Gaza in two.
Two days before, tens of thousands of people had gathered, waiting to go north, as outlined in the terms of the ceasefire which came into place weeks ago. Many people even dismantled their tents and even burned them, thinking they would be on the road imminently. They had to spend a harsh few nights in the freezing cold because Israel postponed the return for several days.
But on Monday morning, I drank a cup of tea and ate a piece of bread. I carried my bag on my shoulder and said goodbye to my mother, daughter, and wife, hoping they would join me in the coming days. At nine o’clock, I took a car with my brother-in-law and nephew from the southern city of Khan Younis to Nuseirat, and from there, I walked 20 km over the rubble of Nuseirat camp along the coastal road to my city of Beit Lahia.
Every step I took towards the north was like a pulse of joy in my heart and soul. Every step I took was bringing me closer to my home and my land.
I have a beautiful picture etched into my mind of the world before 7 October—a picture of Beit Lahia. It is located in the far north of Gaza and has a long sandy beach, picturesque rest areas. It is where the most fertile lands are, because of the freshest and most abundant groundwater that comes from the mountains of Hebron. Here, the lands are covered in orange, lemon, and guava orchards, and most famously, the strawberry fields. Since the early 1970s, the strawberries from Beit Lahia have travelled across the countries of Europe, known for their quality and sweet taste. The locals call them “red gold.”
And so, I grew up surrounded by sycamore trees and strawberry bushes, the voices of cart vendors, the sound of agricultural water motors, and friends and family gatherings on the streets—memories that had disappeared a year or more ago, memories I was hoping, with each step north, to return to.
But the further north I walked, the more destruction I saw, the more life and people were disappearing. I passed Gaza City and reached the North Governorate, Jabalia, and Beit Lahia. I was afraid that history would repeat itself, like in 1948, when Palestinians were forced to flee their lands, never to return. I didn’t trust that we would actually be able to go home until the moment came for us to enter my district. It was seven o’clock when I entered Beit Lahia.
I had already heard that it was destroyed and seen photos shared online, but it is different when you see it with your own eyes. It was as if it had been hit by a nuclear bomb. All the buildings were razed to the ground, to the left and to the right of me. The city’s features had changed; it had morphed into a ghost town. Beit Lahia, my hometown, was the most levelled. A few houses that were still standing were uninhabitable—destroyed and burnt.
I arrived at my neighbourhood at eight o’clock. I had been told before that my house was partially destroyed. When I entered my street and my eyes fell on my house, despite the obvious fatigue in my body, I forgot about it as soon as I entered. I found my house with destroyed walls and empty of furniture. I plan to search later among the piles of sand and stones, to try to find some of our memories—pictures, papers, and personal belongings.
I sat this morning at the door of the house, contemplating, meeting the people who stayed behind in Beit Lahia, who asked me how everyone was. Everything I had dreamed of had evaporated. All my hopes and dreams collided with destruction and a painful reality—piles of debris that will take years to clear.
I don’t know if the orchards of Beit Lahia will ever bloom again.