My Heart Never Left Al-Shujaiya

From family gatherings and flourishing gardens to displacement and daily survival, everything changed overnight. Yet my heart remains rooted in al-Shujaiya, the place I still call home.

Palestinians flee al-Shujaiya neighborhood amid Israeli threats. (Photo: WAFA)

By Yusuf El-Mbayed

The last time I saw al-Shujaiya, my neighbourhood in Gaza City, was on October 7. Back then, the streets were still vibrant with the voices of my friendly neighbours, many of whom are now martyrs, killed by the IOF. I still remember children running through the streets, happily playing hide-and-seek, while adults called out from balconies above, inviting everyone downstairs to gather and enjoy a game of football in the alley behind our house.

Even the familiar sounds of donkey-cart vendors, once part of the daily rhythm of life, have been silenced by deafening bombs and military assaults. Our pre-October 7 reality, though heavy and oppressive under siege and occupation, feels like a different world compared to the genocide we are living through now.

As children, my friends and I loved pulling pranks on passers-by. We would splash them with water from hidden corners and rooftops, then run away before they could catch us. Sometimes, we launched surprise attacks with handheld slingshots, laughing as we scattered in every direction.

I miss those carefree, sunny days when death did not seem so imminent. Back then, moments of laughter still survived. The streets had not yet become graveyards of rubble and silence; childhood still found ways to endure. I long for those golden days.

As a young adult, our property in al-Shujaiya was one of the few places where I could find a brief respite from the constant chaos of life under siege. My mind was free to wander while birdsong serenaded my spirit, and whenever I looked skyward, I marvelled at the vast blue canvas stretching above me. When a gentle breeze blew, it carried the fragrance of blossoming fruits from our garden: lemons, peaches, figs, pomegranates, and oranges.

Pure Tranquillity

In my memory, al-Shujaiya was a place of pure tranquillity.

Before the outbreak of the ongoing genocide, my youthful naivety prevented me from fully feeling the weight of the siege. Back then, things seemed a little more within reach, even if life was far from easy. I would wake up early in a worn but familiar bed, wash my hands and face in a proper bathroom, and dress neatly for school with a wide smile. I was excited, unaware of much of the world’s harshness, but ready to face whatever came my way.

Under normal circumstances, I would take a taxi to work and back. I would eat meals that filled my stomach and gave me strength. I could light the stove with gas, prepare food with ease, and enjoy eating outdoors, surrounded by lush greenery.

I would begin my day with a warm, relaxing shower, adjusting the water to the perfect temperature. Then I would sit at my beloved desk, writing stories filled with dreams and possibilities. I remember the white grapevines glowing softly outside my window at night. How beautiful that view was, with moonlight filtering through the leaves.

What I cannot get out of my mind are the unforgettable moments spent watching my mother bake bread in the clay oven on our farm behind the house. We often invited friends, relatives, and in-laws to gather there. Thursdays were especially meaningful, filled with the aroma of barbecued fish, beef, chicken, and freshly baked manaqeesh.

I cannot forget how simply and joyfully we lived our lives in that stolen garden.

Shattered Life

In an instant, everything I knew shattered around me.

The home that once sheltered my dreams and laughter became an echo in time. The streets where I spent my childhood, where neighbours greeted one another with warmth, became lifeless. The safety and peace I once took for granted vanished overnight, replaced by fear and uncertainty.

Watching my world crumble beneath the weight of bombs and violence felt like losing a part of my soul. Every familiar corner, every cherished memory, was swept away, leaving me displaced—not only from a house, but from the very essence of my life.

I feel humiliated and diminished, having lost everything I once held dear.

I do not even know where to begin to express how painful and tragic my reality has become. Words fall short when trying to describe this misery. I once knew happiness and ease—a life I never imagined could slip through my fingers.

Every day, I wake up alongside 16 family members squeezed into a partially damaged rented flat with missing walls. It breaks us to pay $700 a month for a filthy, dilapidated space unfit for human habitation, yet we have no choice if we want to avoid homelessness.

We sleep on cold, unforgiving floors. The chill bites through our bodies as we lie crowded together in an overcrowded space that offers neither comfort nor relief.

Once daylight arrives, my time is consumed by searching for the things we need, running errands, trying to work, and making exhausting trips up and down the seemingly endless stairs to the flat.

Outside, we walk long distances searching for charity food kitchens, known locally as Tikya, so we can feed our starving children. We search for cardboard and sometimes even have to buy it so that we can light a fire to make a cup of tea or coffee when we return.

We cook and eat only the bare essentials necessary to survive these hellish days. Without electricity or gas, preparing food has become an arduous task. Firewood is prohibitively expensive, and most people simply cannot afford it.

Everything here is a struggle for survival.

It pains me to endure the same agonising routine every day. The thought of spending the rest of my life in this partially damaged, wall-less apartment in western Gaza feels suffocating. The cramped conditions are claustrophobic enough as they are.

We are exhausted by this reality. How desperately I wish it would end, yet nothing seems to change.

New Catastrophe

My parents, my history teachers, and elderly people gathered in the streets used to tell us about the darkest chapters of Palestinian history and how painful those times were.

Yet even those who survived those events could never have imagined that another catastrophe would arrive decades later. Many believed the Nakba was the defining tragedy of Palestinian history. They never expected to witness another disaster of such magnitude.

Today, many feel that nothing compares to the catastrophe we have endured over these past years.

My family and I are among hundreds of thousands of Palestinians from eastern Gaza who were forced out of al-Shujaiya and other districts, enduring countless hardships simply because we wanted to live with dignity, like anyone else in the world.

Meanwhile, Israel has maintained complete control over the area for more than a year, with no sign of withdrawing. It has expanded its control deeper into eastern Gaza, advancing toward Salah al-Deen Street, which divides the Strip in two. As a result, vast areas remain inaccessible, suffocating daily life and making survival even more difficult for Gazans.

Many of us have been left with almost nothing as famine continues to tighten its grip.

Every morning, we wake up preparing ourselves for another harsh and uncertain day.

At night, I whisper a prayer to Allah, pleading for peace, for an end to the occupation, for an end to the bombs, and for the restoration of the lives this genocide has stolen from us.

I long to return to al-Shujaiya, the place I love most, where my heart truly belongs. I wish to return and spend the rest of my life there. The thought of returning home is what sustains me through these difficult days.

Endurance

This genocide has forced me to confront a painful truth: leaving home is not always a journey toward new opportunities or a better future.

Sometimes, it means becoming homeless in your own country while everything around you transforms into a living nightmare consumed by grief and loneliness.

Though my family home and much of al-Shujaiya have been wiped off the map, my desire to return to our farm remains as strong as ever.

There are countless stories like mine.

Justice is long overdue for our dignity, our freedom, and our right to live in the land where we were born. We remain here, uprooted yet unbroken, dreaming of return.

Our hearts belong to al-Shujaiya, Gaza, and Palestine.

We endure because we have no other choice.

But to people around the world who enjoy freedom, security, and choice: it is not enough simply to bear witness. Choose to stand with us. Hold your governments and institutions accountable. Take meaningful action. Our stories should not end in silence.

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Yusuf El-Mbayed is an English teacher at a school in Gaza, a human rights activist, and a freelance writer. He has contributed as a writer and reporter for Palm Strategic Initiatives Centre, Palestine Now, and the 16th October Group, among others.