Gaza conflict in 2025: Repeat of Nakba for Ruwaida Amer
Rewritten Article:
The Nakba - a term that echoed in my ears since birth, becoming a lived reality almost two decades ago.
Born in the bustling Khan Younis camp, I was baptized into the largest gathering of refugees uprooted during the Nakba, when Israel came into existence in 1948.
Curiosity sparked, I often found myself grappling with the profound question, "What is a refugee?" As a child, I attended a school operated by UNRWA, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees. My documents, a constant reminder of my refugee status, accompanied me in every milestone of life, even medical consultations at UNRWA clinics.
Still, I couldn't grasp the implications of being a refugee, puzzled by the tales of my grandparents' forced exodus from their homeland, Beit Daras, a nowhere-to-be-found village north of the Gaza Strip.
Shedding Light on the Nakba
The concept of being a refugee remained obscure until Israel launched its war on Gaza, and I got a harsh taste of the realities on Nakba Day, May 15, the day Palestinians remember the Nakba, the catastrophe.
As a budding journalist, I was eager to cover the event. My first foray was into the Shati camp, west of Gaza City. Little did I know that it would be my first visit to a refugee camp in 13 years, since we had traded the confined camp life for village life in al-Fukhari, south of Khan Younis.
The discomfort of tiny, tightly-packed houses resonated with the memories of my childhood in Khan Younis. Both new and original structures stood side by side, a testament to time and survival. I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort as I strolled through the relatively clear, summery streets.
The sight of elderly men and women seated by their doorways transported me to my childhood, where I often spent hours enjoying the company of my grandmother, longing for open spaces that mirrored her pre-Nakba home in Beit Daras. We listened as they reminisced about their cherished lifestyles, lost and yearned for generational returns.
From Majdal to Hamama, Al-Jura - all once lively settlements depopulated by Israel in 1948 - stories unfolded as we met fellow descendants. Sharing memories of the infamous maftoul, the traditional Palestinian couscous of Beit Daras, we laughed heartily, reminiscing about simpler times stolen by the violent displacement.
The visit to the camp was bittersweet, filled with laughter and nostalgia, despite the inescapable pain of being forced into camp life after their ancestral homes were taken over violently.
Exile and Departure
As I delved deeper into these stories, my grandfather's life began to unravel before me. He emerged as the central character of my own Nakba narrative until his demise in 2021.
My grandfather, then approximately 15, painted vivid experiences as I hung onto his every word, often left astounded by the silence of the world as it watched. He recounted the tranquil life they lived working their farmland, exchanging local produce among towns. Their simple meals generally consisted of lentils, homemade bread, and wheat ground in traditional stone mills.
But the idyllic existence was shattered by Zionist militias forcing them to flee and head to Gaza. Newborn in his arms, my grandfather helplessly watched his son succumb to the harsh conditions endured while fleeing.
The loss became the family wound, emblematic of the eternal hope of return.
Memories Embodied, Sorrow Transformed
The Nakba is a memory passed down from parents to children, a powerful testament of dispossession.
Fast forward to the 21st century, when we found ourselves living the Nakba once more. Displaced during Israel's attacks on Gaza, we were threatened by weapons and air strikes. Family members were detained right before our eyes, subjected to cruel treatment in prisons. Living conditions were dire, with survival and safety replacing dreams of a secure future.
After losing his life in the conflict in 2021, my grandfather's stories ceased, but the Nakba narrative lives on.
From the dust of our once peaceful land, we continue to carve out the Nakba 2023 in history - a battle for existence that defies the progression of time.
In years to come, will future generations hear the tales of our suffering, the Nakba of 1948 and its enduring aftermath in 2023? Will they dream of returning, just as I have, since realizing the stigma of being labeled a refugee and understanding the magnitude of the longing for a homeland?
Since my journey of understanding began, this anguish, this need for a home from which we were unjustly stripped, has remained etched in my consciousness.
The memories of life in camp, the displacement from the familiarity of my house 24 years ago, remain crystal clear.
Now we live our days engulfed by uncertainty, fighting for survival in the land we love, and will always claim as our own.
The Nakba didn't end in 1948. Its echoes continue to reverberate in 2025.
- Breaking news: In 2025, the echoes of the Nakba continue to resonate as refugees face another displacement amidst escalating war-and-conflicts in their homeland.
- Amidst the tragedy, stories of resilience emerge, with refugees transforming their sorrow into memories that serve as a testament to their relentless pursuit for a homeland, a part of the general-news narrative that cannot be ignored.
- As the world continues to witness the impact of politics on war and conflicts, it is vital to remember the plight of refugees and ensure their right to return to their homeland, echoing the words of the displaced: "Our home is not a region or borders; it's a land etched in memories and dreams, a home we long and fight for."
