by Sanaa Kamal

GAZA, Feb. 22 (Xinhua) -- As a journalist from Gaza, I have chronicled the city's resilience in the face of ceaseless destruction, bearing witness to the unwavering spirit of its people. Yet, amid this constant documentation of the present, I realized that I had almost forgotten Gaza's past. It was only when U.S. President Donald Trump's proposal in February surfaced that I was jolted back into remembering -- a reminder that remembrance requires courage, just as survival does.

On Feb. 4, Trump unveiled a plan for the future of Palestine that included relocating Palestinians to neighboring countries and transforming Gaza into a resort under U.S. ownership. The idea of this "resort" struck a chord in me, as the land he envisions was once a vibrant home where generations of Palestinians forged their lives, leaving indelible memories in every street and along every shoreline.

Gaza used to be a thriving and colorful city. Its streets were alive with vendors shouting out their merchandise, children's laughter echoing through the air and families converging in lively markets. Along the Mediterranean coastline, beaches provided a serene sanctuary, punctuated by historic landmarks that testified to a profound and multifaceted culture.

Nowadays, much of that dynamism has vanished. The streets have fallen into an eerie silence, and broken storefronts are testaments to what once was. Even the beaches, former symbols of serenity, are now strewn with debris.

Through a satellite's lens, what was once a densely populated coastal enclave has been reduced to an uninhabitable area buried under rubble. According to a report released by the United Nations Satellite Center on Sep. 30, 2024, 66 percent of all constructions in Gaza have sustained damage.

Fear has been aggravating chaos and displacement caused by the continuous bombardment. Like 2 million other Palestinians, I have been compelled to flee multiple times, always with the dread that my next shelter might become my final resting place. Meanwhile, my work during the war has granted me a front-row seat to the personal stories that lie beneath the cold, hard statistics.

Adapting to new homes has been a demanding challenge to generations of Palestinians. In fact, the term "Nakba," which translates to "catastrophe," has come to specifically denote the widespread displacement and dispossession endured by Palestinians during the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. This history weighs heavily on our collective memory, shaping our present experiences and fears for the future.

An 85-year-old man, Abu Mohammed al-Hasanat still bears the scars of a painful history. His family was expelled from Beersheba, the largest city in the Negev desert of southern Israel, which was once predominantly Muslim before 1948.

Recently, he felt as if his past had collided with the present. Once again compelled to flee, he journeyed on foot with his family to Rafah, eventually finding refuge in a worn-out tent. However, this tent offered little protection from the summer heat or winter rains, leaving them vulnerable and reminding him of the Nakba that uprooted his family all those years ago.

"Every day felt like reliving the Nakba," he said. Seven decades later, returning to Beersheba remains an unattainable dream, but Al-Hasanat refuses to accept another forced displacement. "We will not be refugees again. We will not leave Gaza," he vowed.

After 15 months of war, a ceasefire agreement took effect in January, allowing displaced Palestinians to return to their devastated neighborhoods.

Even the faintest flicker of hope is sufficient to spark a historic march of tens of thousands, sending a clear message to Trump and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu: "Gaza is not for sale. We will not be displaced again."

Returning home, however, marks only the commencement of another arduous challenge. The destruction wrought by the war has left no aspect of life untouched, with homes in ruins, roads rendered impassable and water sources contaminated. But beyond the tangible damage, the most profound injury is the erosion of human dignity -- a cruel and unbearable reality that no one should have to endure.

Despite this severe devastation and the unimaginable hardships it has caused, the people of Gaza remain steadfast in their resolve to rebuild. Life in Gaza, resilient as ever, persists. Markets spring up amidst the rubble, makeshift bakeries resume operation and schools reopen within mosques and tents.

Among those resolutely committed to rebuilding Gaza is Al-Zein. He lost his home in an airstrike, but instead of succumbing to despair, he has emerged as a beacon of hope. Al-Zein now spearheads relief efforts, distributing aid and managing a small bread-making initiative amidst the ruins of his once-familiar neighborhood.

"Life does not stop, even in destruction," he said. "With our own hands, we will rebuild Gaza, brick by brick."

To certain politicians, Palestine may seem like a mere strategic pawn, a piece to be moved around a chessboard of power. But to us Gazans, the loss of a home is far from an abstract concept -- it is a deeply felt, heart-rending reality.

Death and displacement are indeed terrifying, but what is even more devastating is the erasure of memories. The continuous suffering has cast a long shadow over the beauty of Gaza's past, causing the world to forget the vibrant city it once was. We Gazans, however, refuse to let those memories fade. We hold tightly to our stories, our history and our hope for a better future.

They also cling to the belief that their homeland will be rebuilt by shaping their own destiny, rather than leaving it in the hands of others.

"We will stay here forever," declare Al-Hasanat, Al-Zein and over 2 million other Gazans, with resolute determination. Their voices echo through the ruins, a testament to the unwavering spirit of a people who refuse to be displaced again. Enditem

(Diao Wencong contributed to the story.)

Related

Go to Forum >>0 Comment(s)