To those who still care, this may be the last letter I write from Gaza City.
We are expecting Israel to officially issue its “evacuation orders” any time now. My beloved city, Gaza, stands on the brink of a full military occupation by the Israeli army. Their plan is to force us all to leave our homes and move into tents in the southern part of the Strip. We do not know what will happen to those who resist. We may be living our last days in Gaza City.
Since the beginning of the war, we have heard that Israel wants to occupy our city and take it as a settlement area for its people. At first, we didn’t believe it; we thought this kind of news was psychological warfare. After all, we have had “evacuation orders” before and people were able to return, even if it was to the ruins of their homes.
On October 13, shortly after the genocide started, the Israeli army told everyone in northern Gaza, including Gaza City, to move south. The orders were accompanied by relentless bombardment. Hundreds would sometimes die in a day. Hundreds of thousands of people fled south for their lives.
We didn’t. My father refused to leave our home, so we all stayed. We lived in our home for months in unbearable pain and fear. We witnessed the destruction of our neighbourhood with our eyes.
Then the Israeli army cut off the north from the south. Aid could not reach the north. From January to April 2024, my family and I lived the most suffocating days of the war. We were starved; we spent our days searching for anything to ease our hunger. Sometimes, we were forced to eat animal feed.
In January this year, when a ceasefire took effect, people were allowed to go back to the north. It was an emotional moment that reflected just how much we, Palestinians, are attached to our land.
This time, the atmosphere feels different. It feels that the threat of permanent occupation, of permanent loss, is very real.
“In preparation for the transfer of civilians from the war zone to the south … a large number of tents and shelter equipment will be allowed to enter [Gaza]”, Israeli army spokesperson Avichay Adraee posted on Facebook.
People across Gaza read this news with a heavy heart. There are many questions and few answers: Where will we flee? When will this start? Will anyone intervene and stop this catastrophe?
People are overwhelmed – emotionally, mentally, physically, financially; they cannot endure any more suffering.
Since my family and I heard this announcement, we have been looking at each other with confused, fearful eyes.
When I saw images on social media of tents and tarpaulins entering Gaza City, my heart broke into a million pieces. The thought of my future being stuffed into a tent terrified me. My dreams are big; how can I fit them into a small tent?
I told my father I don’t want to live in a tent. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. He looked at me with helplessness in his eyes and said, “We do not have another choice, the tent is becoming our new reality.”
We do not want to leave, but we feel we do not have a choice. We do not think we can endure the relentless bombardment and shelling once again. The Israelis will likely be even more brutal when they invade this time. It will not be punishment this time; it will be total erasure.
Feeling the end of their city is coming, people are spending what they fear may be their last days in it with their families, having their single meal for the day, together. They are walking around their neighbourhoods, taking pictures of themselves with the places tied to their childhood memories, capturing everything that might be erased.
I write these words, sitting in a shared workspace where many students and writers are trying to fight the fear of what is to come by studying and working. They are hanging on to their work routines, hoping for some normalcy amid the terrifying chaos.
People in Gaza love life, even when life means surviving by the bare minimum. Even in the darkest moments, we always find a way to have hope, joy, and happiness.
I want to have hope, but I am also terrified – not only of the bombs, of forced displacement, of tents and exile. I am terrified of being cut off from the world, of being silenced.
I feel like what Israel is preparing for us in the south is a concentration camp where we will be cut off from the world, our voices muffled, our existence erased.
I do not know how much longer my words will reach the outside world, so I want to take this opportunity to make an appeal.
Do not forget me, Sara Awad, a Palestinian student, whose biggest dream is to finish her degree in English literature and become a professional journalist.
Do not forget the people of Gaza and their 2 million stories of love, heartbreak and perseverance.
Do not forget my city, Gaza – an ancient metropolis, full of history and culture, full of love.
Do not forget how fiercely we resisted and held on to our homes and land, even when the world all but abandoned us.
The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera’s editorial stance.
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