Reuniting With Family in Gaza During the Break Between Bombings

Many displaced Palestinians struggle to maintain their daily lives under harsh conditions amid the rubble left by Israeli attacks in Gaza City on Dec. 22, 2025. Photo: Khames Alrefi/Anadolu via Getty Images

From the very beginning of the genocide, I barely left my room. Three waves of displacement defined my movements: the first, on October 17, 2023, took me to my sister Doaa’s house in Khan Younis for nearly a month and a half. The second led me to my other sister Tasneem’s home in Al-Zawayda for about a week. The third displacement brought me to Rafah, where I stayed from December 31, 2023, until May 6, 2024.

Returning after Israeli forces occupied Rafah felt miraculous — our house had somehow survived. Still, I remained confined to my room until the so-called end of the genocide on January 19. The brief second ceasefire allowed me to step out for the first time with my father on March 17.

We drove across Gaza in our beloved car, visiting every corner of our city and stopping to see all our relatives on my father’s side — my aunts, uncles, and cousins — before returning home at midnight, only for the genocide to resume two hours later. After that, the outside world became almost inaccessible once again; my only venture outside was to make a brief, necessary visit to the dentist on August 23.

During that relentless isolation, I turned inward, to writing, to studying, to memory, and to personal growth. Each became a quiet act of resistance, a way to resist suffocation, to exist when existence itself was under siege. I immersed myself completely, separating my world from the chaos beyond my walls. Reclaiming life became an internal struggle, a fight to preserve traces of normalcy in a reality determined to erase every trace of it.

On Friday, OCtober 17, my sisters arrived at our home: Doaa with her 1-year-old son, Hossam; and Tasneem with her children, Nour, 3 years old, and Ezz Aldin, a year and a half old. They stayed with us for a full week, which became one of the most beautiful and meaningful times I had had in years. I didn’t know at the time that these moments of peace and happiness wouldn’t last.

I especially cherished taking care of little Hossam, whom I had missed more than anyone. He is very attached to me and shows so much affection, and being with him reminded me of the warmth we had been deprived of for so long.

That gathering was only the second time our family had been together since the genocide separated us two years ago. That same week, my aunt arrived with her son and daughter and stayed overnight. We also invited my cousins Ahmed and Alaa — the only remaining members of their family, as the rest were martyred — and they spent the day with us.

But on October 19, as we were talking and catching up, the Israeli occupation launched airstrikes across the entire Gaza Strip, including in my neighborhood. Our neighbors’ house was bombed, and we were pushed apart again, despite apparently being under a “ceasefire.”

I tried to calm myself by holding on to one truth: My father, my mother, my brothers, and my sisters were safe. Nothing matters more than their safety — if they are well, everything else is too.

During a respite from Israel’s airstrikes, we spent the day at my maternal grandfather’s house. As soon as I stepped inside, I was overwhelmed by a flood of childhood memories. We hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year, but we were all longing for this reunion and the house was filled with laughter and hugs.

The day featured five carefully planned surprises organized by my Aunt Manar. She had moved to Egypt a year after the beginning of the genocide and hadn’t been able to return. My sisters and I were responsible for executing her plan. My aunt stayed in constant contact with us to make sure every detail was perfect.

Four of the surprises were for my cousins, the students: Mohammed (Tawjihi 2006), Malek (Tawjihi 2006), Yaman (Tawjihi 2007), and my sister Aya (Tawjihi 2007). The Tawjihi, or high school graduation, exams marked the culmination of 12 years of study. The 2006 and 2007 classes — students born in those years — had been delayed by the genocide, but despite the extraordinary circumstances, the Ministry of Education conducted online exams. Results for the 2006 generation were released, and after some time, the results for the 2007 generation were announced. The fifth surprise was for my sister Sojood, who was celebrating her graduation from the Islamic University with a degree in medicine.

The gift baskets of treats for the family’s graduating students, a surprise arranged by the author’s Aunt Manar. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

Each gift package contained a variety of treats, carefully arranged on the table at my grandfather’s house. My grandfather’s wife also prepared popcorn, biscuits, tea, and other goodies.

We agreed we would all arrive together after the Asr prayer. The surprise went off perfectly, with each of our guests completely caught off guard by their packages of delicious food and treats. We captured their joy with photos and videos. We played graduation songs and my Aunt Manar joined us live via WhatsApp to witness the celebration.

I realized that here in Gaza, we never stop striving to live, to move forward, to overcome the genocide imposed upon us by the Israeli occupation. We’ve survived in the face of the world’s silence and indifference. We truly are a people who deserve to live.

The next day, I finally met my close friend Lana, who had ranked first in the nation in the 2023 Tawjihi exams. Before the genocide, we had planned to celebrate together, but the attacks changed our plans. After two long years, we finally made our plan happen.

We’d spent countless hours talking online, but nothing can compare with face-to-face conversation. We agreed to meet in front of her house in Al-Zawayda, and from there we would find a ride to a newly opened restaurant called O2.

To our surprise, there were no cars available for hire. We were hesitant to use improvised local transport: donkey carts, horse-drawn wagons, and other options people had devised out of necessity. After a long wait, we finally found a car and rode together to the restaurant.

Once there, we ordered chicken calzones, vegetable pizza, Nutella crepes, Nutella luqaimat, and Pepsi, the only beverage available at the time due to the occupation’s tight control over imports. We were so absorbed in conversation that we barely touched the food. The waiter packaged it for us to take home.

The author reunited with her friend Lana after the genocide kept them apart for two years. At a new restaurant, the pair ordered a vegetable pizza and a calzone and drank Pepsi — a sign of the occupation’s strict control over imports to Gaza.  Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

After long playful arguments about who should pay, Lana surprised me — she’d already made arrangements for her cousin, who lives nearby, to cover the entire bill. I made her promise that next time she would let me pay.

Before leaving, we took photos together in the restaurant’s small photo corner, capturing the rare, happy reunion we’d been waiting for for two years.

By Maghrib, the evening prayer, it was time to return home. There was life in the streets, but I felt a nagging fear that it would all be ripped away again. With some difficulty, we found a small bus and made it back safely.

I realized how desperately I had needed this outing to start living my life again. After I posted an Instagram story about Lana and me, featuring moments from our day together, my friends — even those abroad — were envious that we’d had our first outing together, and they wanted to make their own plans with me.

I was interviewed about my experience as an exemplary student at the Islamic University of Gaza in October. I spoke in depth about my experience learning online in the midst of the genocide. I’m only 19, but I completed three years of academic work in just two years amid forced displacement, limited electricity and internet service, and the emotional toll wreaked by pain, grief, and loss. I also presented my creative output: 50 published articles, 30 poems, contributions to over 20 international platforms, and publishing a zine that collected together some of my works. My published work had reached readers all over the globe and major cities across them. It was my message to the Israeli occupation and the world that no matter what they do, they cannot kill our hope.

In late October, I spent the day with my childhood friend Aya Nasser. Our families had been close friends since long before we were born, and we grew up together. We also hadn’t seen each other in two years.

The author and her childhood friend Aya reunited at the latter’s family home before sharing a meal together at a restaurant. Hours later, Israel once again bombed Gaza despite the ceasefire, killing more than 100 Palestinians. Photo: Taqwa Ahmed Al-Wawi

I traveled to her apartment after the Dhuhr prayer on difficult, unsafe streets without proper transportation. I eventually found a tuk-tuk for the rest of the journey and recorded a short video to calm my nerves.

Aya’s building contained many damaged apartments that were partially open to the air, which made me fear for my safety as I walked inside. Aya and her family greeted me warmly with hugs and kisses. She led me to her room, and we sat on her bed. We spent hours talking and sharing our experiences of the past two years. Our conversation felt healing in a way that sending messages back and forth could never replicate.

We drank cappuccinos, took photos, and discussed our shared love for documenting life’s precious moments. Later, Aya got dressed, and we went to a newly opened restaurant in Al-Nuseirat called Al-Asima, about 15 minutes from her home. The restaurant was elegant but sparsely occupied, probably because of its high prices. We sat on a couch and ordered chicken pizza, pineapple-melon juice, corn appetizers with mayonnaise, garlic sauce, ketchup, potatoes, peppers, and pickles.

Eating there felt like taking back life itself. For the past two years, this type of meal had been rare — either unavailable, prohibitively expensive, or too risky to reach. Our motto now was to enjoy life regardless of the cost. We laughed, spoke from the heart, and took photos and videos to preserve the moment.

As usual, we had playful debates over who should pay. We agreed to split the bill, but I seized the opportunity and paid for it myself. Afterward, we shopped at a nearby market before returning home.

Only an hour later, the Israeli occupation broke the ceasefire, taking more than 100 lives. To this day, that was the last time I went out. After enduring two years of relentless genocide, I had allowed myself to hope — to live again, to laugh with friends, to savor fleeting moments of joy— only for death and destruction to strike once again. This is the reality of life in Gaza: Any effort you make to live an ordinary life might be cut off without warning, the smallest spark of happiness extinguished in a moment.

Even now, I refuse to give in to despair. I hold tightly to the moments that have reminded me of my life as it should be lived: laughing with my sisters, embracing my family, reconnecting with friends over a meal. These experiences are my refuge, proof that nothing in this world can outweigh family, friendship, and human connection.

As long as my loved ones remain safe, life moves forward and our spirit endures, no matter how fiercely the occupation seeks to erase us. They can try to steal our joy, but they can never take away our happy memories — or our will to live and be free.