Noor Alyacoubi
It’s been almost
two weeks since the ceasefire came into effect in Gaza City, yet I haven’t
adjusted to the calm we were deprived of for so many months.
A Palestinian man surveys the rubble of destroyed buildings in the
al-Rimal neighborhood of Gaza City on January 30, 2025. (Photo: Omar
Ashtawy/APA Images)
Fifteen months
of war stripped me of my humanity, comfort, and freedom. I even seem to have
lost my ability to cry, even though everything around me — broken homes,
shattered dreams — begs for tears. My mind feels tangled, my body tense, and my
heart heavy. Normalcy feels like a distant stranger I don’t know how to
welcome.
I imagined that
the end of the war would bring relief and freedom to walk the streets without
fear. But while I now walk without the dread of airstrikes, I feel like a
newcomer to the city where I was born and raised.
The scars of war
are everywhere, and I can’t look away. A bombed-out house. A charred mosque. A
burned-down shop. A bulldozed street. A torn and empty tent. The acrid smell of
ash lingers in the air. Broken glass crunches underfoot. Everywhere I turn, rubble
whispers stories of what once was. The sights echo the deafening sound of
shelling that defined 470 days of war.
Though I no
longer feel fear, I don’t recognize my surroundings. The devastation is so vast
that I avoid walking alone, afraid of getting lost in what was once familiar
terrain. Cars are scarce, leaving us no choice but to walk. When my husband
Mohammed and I venture out, I repeatedly ask him: “Where are we?”
Gaza feels
lifeless, stripped of its colors. Once-green trees are gone. Streets are gray
with rubble. Buildings stand like pale skeletons, hollowed out by violence.
Darkness shrouds the city, a vivid reminder of the brutality that has scarred
every corner of life. And yet, amid the rubble, people insist on holding onto
life, determined to rebuild and pursue some semblance of normalcy.
Searching for
normalcy
Markets are now
flooded with goods we hadn’t seen since October 2023 — chocolates, chips, meat,
vegetables, and fruits. Every day, people, myself included, rush to the
markets, eager to see what’s new. We want to comfort our souls with something
delicious — anything other than the canned, rationed food we survived on for so
long.
A few days ago,
I made grilled chicken wings for the first time since before the war. My
husband and I were thrilled, watching them sizzle in the pan and inhaling the
aroma of fat and spices. We couldn’t wait for them to finish cooking.
But as we ate,
our excitement vanished. Sad memories crept into our minds. We remembered the
days we survived on a single bowl of soup, how we would stretch half a loaf of
bread over an entire day, or the gritty, bitter taste of bread made from animal
feed, which we forced ourselves to swallow down because there was no white
flour.
“It’s been so
long since we’ve eaten something normal,” my husband told me.
In May 2024, the
Israeli army began allowing some goods into Gaza, offering a brief reprieve
from animal feed and expired products. But canned foods, such as beans, peas,
or corned beef, became our staple diet — foods that left our stomachs crying
for something fresh. Ironically, though the new food entering Gaza brings no
real joy, we still eat. We eat to nourish our bodies, to feel like normal
people eating normal food again.
The other day, I
insisted that Mohammed take me and our two-year-old daughter, Lya, to see the
sea for the first time. I wanted her to experience the beauty of Gaza’s
coastline, even if she’s too young to understand.
After some
persuading, he agreed. We walked nearly a kilometer to Al-Samer Junction in
central Gaza, where cars occasionally pass. After 20 minutes of waiting, we
finally caught a ride to a point near the beach and walked the last 500 meters
on foot.
Lya giggled the
entire way. It was her first time in a car, and she squealed with delight at
the feel of the air through the windows and the bumps in the road. Her laughter
brought us a flicker of joy.
But when we
reached the beach, I couldn’t feel happy. I turned to Mohammed and asked him,
“Why don’t I feel happy? Is it normal?” He replied, “Neither do I.” We fell
silent.
The Gaza beach
was once vibrant, filled with families enjoying picnics, playing games, and
soaking in the sea breeze. It was so crowded that finding a spot to sit was a
challenge.
Now, it feels
lonely, as if the sea itself is mourning.
A home without
family
Reuniting with
my parents and hugging them tightly was all I longed for during the war. But
here lies the deepest heartbreak. Displaced from their home in western Gaza in
November 2023, my family endured a harrowing journey from Gaza City to Khan
Younis to Rafah, before seizing a rare opportunity to flee to Egypt.
As others
prepare for joyous reunions, cleaning their shelters, preparing meals, and
creating spaces for their families, I feel a hollow ache. I am happy for them,
truly, but I have no one to wait for.
Sometimes, I
visit my family’s partially destroyed house, seeking a sense of connection, a
fragment of the life we once had. But every visit leaves me in tears.
I see their
house, pale and dusty, its corners filled with echoes of the past. I imagine my
mother in the kitchen, welcoming me with a smile, preparing my favorite dishes.
I picture my father on the sofa, watching TV, my siblings beside him, my
nephews playing quietly nearby.
But these are
just memories. The house is empty now, and so am I.
Gaza has always
been resilient, its people unyielding in the face of unimaginable hardship. But
as we walk through the rubble, eat our first real meals in months, and attempt
to find joy in simple pleasures, one question lingers: How do we rebuild, not just
our homes, but ourselves? When will Gaza’s laughter return? When will mine?
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