He is weighing whether he will return to Gaza

In her first post from Gaza, blogger Amal Mustaja described daily life in the war. The second dispatch closed with the news that he had managed to escape at Egypt and her children. Murtaja, who taught English in Gaza at the American International School, wrote this from Giza, outside Cairo.

As the near-fire ceasefire approached, the news was a whirlwind of conflicting reports. It was an emotional cleansing, especially with many of my friends and relatives still in Gaza, that I honestly stopped following closely. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Then, two days ago, my WhatsApp notifications went crazy. I knew something was going on. I turned on the TV and saw the news of the King’s Fire. A wave of ambivance washed over me, tears soon followed.

Memories of Eman, my brother’s wife, and my nephews, Omar and Zaid, we lost in October, haunted me. Zaid would have turned 5 this year, and Omar 6. I pictured my burning house, where I lived many happy days, and where I built my second family, and where I built a second family with my partner now, and the blooming classes are now reduced to a dollar. I picture my parents’ house, the last source of safety and love. These images of what once was – and now exists only as a memory – filled my mind. Any penalty for quitting from afar felt reduced, even these feelings were aroused.

The last 15 months – even though they felt like years – had been very challenging. Adapting to a new environment and navigating a slightly different culture, not just for me, not for me but for Mohammed and Ali. Even now, I often found myself looking out the window, asking, “Where am I?” There is no doubt that Egypt is a beautiful place, and the people are warm and loving, and while I have become more familiar with it, it still feels strange to me, like a place where I live but not a part of it but not quite.

I’ve been trying to settle down, establish a new routine, learn from the streets, and get to know my neighbors. But this new life, which I am trying to get used to, feels nothing like my past life in Gaza. Nothing feels right. I end up comparing everything around me to Gaza. Gaza was a small city with limited resources, yet it was sufficient. ” The people, the family, the friends, the food, the history, the memories – they make it a place to be a member.

A small equestrian club where I took Mohammed and Ali every Friday, the smile on my children’s faces every time they ride a horse is enough. Three-story stores with its small shops and familiar storefronts are enough. A food court with only 5 restaurants, where I taught Mohammed, 7 years old, how to go with his smile, said the gentleman. “Sir. they were enough. The holy month of Ramadan and the festivities we shared with our family and friends, the table washed with fragrant dishes, the longing to break our anger together, the laughter and the warmth that fills the room – those are enough. Busy streets during Eid, synchronizing colors and sounds, visiting our relatives and friends, the joy of my children as they insisted on putting their new clothes on their bed in front, These simple pleasures were enough. Groups, I and my best friends threw every now and then, whenever the school insists, to give up some steam and feel oppressed by criticizing the school system and laugh until the sides form bonds That is really important. Now, I don’t remember the last time I saw all my friends together, and I don’t seem to see those who have gone to Egypt, we are scattered in size of this country. I miss them all very much; They are like family to me. Egypt is interesting, but not “enough.” The words kept taunting in my ears, “You’re not coming in.”

Life in Egypt has not been kind to us, and we have had a lot done to us. Not having it here has created major obstacles in our efforts to rebuild and move forward. It has blocked us from access to basic possibilities and what one would call “life.” After a month long search, I finally found a school willing to accept Mohammed and Ali without boarding. But because we don’t have the proper documents, we won’t get the age-end certificates. While I’m grateful they read, it’s disappointing to know there’s no official recording to show for it.

Despite my 12 years of teaching experience, I could not find a job here, years of dedication and love, it seems that there is no noise in this country yet. My husband Ramadan could not start a business either. He was able to join us in April, which honestly felt like a miracle. If it had been one day too late to cross the border, he would still be in captivity there. Our son Ali, three times at that time, clung to Ramadan’s neck and cried, “Father, what took so long?” And Mohammed stood in the corner in disbelief before he burst out, closing Ramadan, crying. The memory still brings a lump to my throat. Starting from scratch is a must for us but let me tell you – it’s unbelievably hard.

Even with all these challenges and obstacles, there is no way for my family and I to go back. We have lost everything – our house has been completely burnt, my mother’s house, my parents’ house, my husband’s place, and my school has been closed. We lost everything, so going back is not an option for me. The echoes of the bombs still ring in my ears, a lasting reminder of the life we ​​once knew. The Palestinian people in Egypt have made a statement about returning, some who want to return tomorrow and others, like me, have lost everything and find it impossible. I mean, we share the same desire – if we wanted to start over, we would like to do it in a safe and healthy environment that is safe and healthy for ourselves and our children, especially since there is no other war breaking out at any time. I am 35 years old, and my husband is 37 years old. I can’t risk losing years of my life in a city where everything can, and does, be lost, lost, lost, lost, lost in the blink of an eye.

You know, we have been through several wars before, but this one is brutal and terrible. We have never left our homes in any previous wars, and we have not faced such heavy losses. I really feel like I betrayed my friends when I asked them in the whatsapp group how it is. Their suffering worries me. I felt that texting them to inquire about their well-being from the comfort of my home, while they were taking refuge in a tent or group accommodation, was a betrayal. I keep telling them I feel sorry for them, and I really do, but I know I want them to stay away from this paper of blood and remains. They all do nothing and have nothing to lose now, like me. None of them have their homes still functioning, and all have lost a relative or loved one. We have also lost several friends we know and love. They are all tired of everything that is happening, they are getting old, that they have lost a lot of their love for life. It’s like they’ve forgotten what happiness feels like. Believe it or not, the final stories are as exciting as you’d expect. Happiness is mixed with fear, sadness and uncertainty. They all said things like this,

The conversation was long and full of sarcasm, a sardonic laugh at our shared struggle. They didn’t have anything to do with the future like I do. They are divided between those who want to leave and leave everything behind, those who wish to leave but are too broke to do so and those who are still in Egypt and want to return to their homes regardless of the circumstances.

Most Gazans in Egypt have decided to return. As I said, life in Egypt was not easy, given that we lack residence permits, preventing us from moving freely, and for financial reasons. Whatever money people saved was almost gone. Some people immigrate to countries like Australia, Canada, and others around the world, and they wish to return. Gaza may be small but Gaza is enough.

The war has affected all of our lives – both figuratively and in terms of our vision of the future, and our will to live. Now, we are all in survival mode, whether in Gaza or outside. We are equally fighting and trying to rebuild our lives, we are all frustrated and we don’t know what is right and wrong for the next phase in our lives. We all feel trapped, unable to find a way out of this whirlwind of thoughts that consume our future and the lives of our children.

The thought that I’m not getting my heart back. I never thought I would ever leave my country. Memories, bright and painful keep flashing through my eyes, and I can’t help but cry. Even if I came back, it wouldn’t be the same. The echoes of war lingered, a lasting reminder of the lives that had been lost. The real battle begins now. And everyone doesn’t know what to do with their lives. Not knowing what the right decision is. Everything we think is right and wrong. We are lost in a sea of ​​doubt, despair and uncertainty.

So I’ll end with this weak promise, I can’t go back now, or for the next few years, but I’m sure I’ll go back one day.