What is ‘home’ now? A woman’s two-year search for safety in the ruins of Gaza

AbuShammala was a rising star in international law. A graduate of Al-Azhar
University and the Palestinian Bar Association, she had been selected for the
prestigious Bertha Justice Fellowship to document Israeli violations for the
international criminal Court and had enrolled for a master’s at the University
of Jordan.

Born in Khan Younis, she grew up in a wealthy suburb of Gaza City. Her home
was a fourth-floor, three-bedroom, 180-square-metre apartment with a sea view.
She lived there with her parents, Khalil and Sahar, sister Nesma, and brother
Muhammad.

They are a close-knit, educated family deeply involved in civic and
human-rights work. By Gaza’s standards, they had a privileged life.

Khalil once led a human rights association and Sahar chairs the Palestinian Development and Women Studies Association. Nesma
recently graduated in computer systems engineering, and Muhammad worked with displaced
people until he was injured in an airstrike.

“I’ve lived in Sheikh Ajleen – Al-Quds Street, southwest Gaza City – since I
was six,” she said. “It was quiet, away from the city’s noise, with only a few
homes nearby.”

That neighbourhood is now rubble. The grocery store she visited with her
sister, her school, university and mosque – a lifetime of memories – lie
destroyed.

AbuShammala was at home in Gaza City, getting ready to meet friends for a
birthday celebration, when Israel invaded after the Hamas attacks on 7 October 2023.

“I had no idea what was happening. It was a shock for all of us,” she
recalled, remembering waking up to the sound of rockets.

Days later, Israel issued evacuation orders. On 13 October, the AbuShammala
family packed what clothes they could and fled south to Khan Younis, to the
home of her late grandfather. The car journey took around 40 minutes.

AbuShammala had always loved Khan Younis, her father’s hometown. It was a
place of family gatherings and childhood memories. War changed that: once a
refuge, Khan Younis came to symbolise loss. “I am someone who has no place.
Someone lost from their home, knowing the way but not knowing how to return.”

She stayed mostly indoors, unable to face the destruction. “I would tell
myself [the IDF] were posting [photos of the destruction] only to scare us. The thought was terrifying,” she said.

Two months later, in late December 2023, AbuShammala was on the move again. After evacuation leaflets fell over Khan Younis,
her family travelled 10 minutes by truck to a patch of land their relatives owned in al-Mawasi. Soon after,
they learned that her grandfather’s house in Khan Younis had been destroyed, along with much of the wider neighbourhood.

It was the middle of winter, and they left in a hurry. “Later, we had to buy
new essentials like clothes, carpets, kitchen appliances and other basics,”
AbuShammala said.

Five of them slept in a single 6×4-metre tent. Later, they acquired a storage
tent to free a little space.

Winter in the tent was “unbearable”, though AbuShammala felt luckier than families with
small children facing the same conditions.

“We had set up a kind of kitchen made of tarps with all our kitchen items.
Then for about two months the gas completely ran out and we had to cook over
fire. It was very difficult, especially in winter, having to go outside to
cook or even to use the bathroom in the cold.”

There was barely any signal, so AbuShammala spent most of her time in the tent
reading books on her phone. She especially enjoyed Guillaume Musso novels.

When her family first arrived, few others were there. But once the IDF entered
Khan Younis, the area filled with tents.

The experience carried an echo of her family’s past. Her grandparents had fled
militia attacks decades earlier, surviving only because of UN tents and aid.

By 21 July 2024, the family had rented an apartment in Nuseirat, in central Gaza.
They moved there in a shared car, and stayed there nearly a year until the second truce in 2025.

The neighbourhood was quieter and less damaged than most, but tents surrounded
their building, a reminder of how few had shelter.

There was water and electricity, so “mentally it felt easier, and even though
it wasn’t like being in our home, at least we felt a bit of normal life”.

Yet Gaza City – normally a ten-minute drive away – felt impossibly far. “We
weren’t able to go to Gaza because the army initially restricted movement from
the south to the north,” AbuShammala recalled.

Then came the famine, after all border crossings into Gaza were closed. “Imagine not even being
able to find flour to make bread. You’re forced to live on whatever type of
food is available, and even that is sold at unbelievable prices.

“We mostly ate hummus and fava beans, and we tried to ration how much bread we
had so it would last as long as possible.”

For AbuShammala, life in Nuseirat was survival in exile.

“My love for Gaza cannot be described in words. Any destruction here feels
like something inside me is destroyed too. They are stealing our years, our
lives, our dreams and our memories”.

On 8 April 2025, AbuShammala returned to her family’s home in Gaza City to
find it in ruins. An airstrike had flattened part of the building. Their home
was burned and hollowed out.

The return meant more than the destruction. She walked through the blackened
rooms, recalling where everything once stood – sometimes reaching for a
vanished bookshelf or mirror.

“Even though our apartment was burned and everything inside was gone, the
moment I stepped back, I felt I was truly home, in my neighborhood, my city,
among my people. It felt like my soul had come back to me.”

Inside, they found bullet casings and alcohol bottles. A neighbour said
Israeli soldiers had stayed there, and stickers on the door appeared to
confirm it.

The area, just north of the Netzarim corridor, had been under tight military control for months.

Still, the family began rebuilding with whatever materials they could find:
repairing walls, covering damage and laying new pipes. They cooked over open
fires when gas ran out.

Then, on 30 June, Muhammad was at al-Baqa café when an Israeli airstrike hit.
A 500lb (230kg) bomb killed 24 Palestinians.

Muhammad survived, shielding his friend, journalist Bayan Abusultan, but
shrapnel shattered his legs, leaving him permanently disabled and unable to
work.

The Israeli military said the strike was under review, claiming it targeted
Hamas operatives. Legal experts said the use of such a large bomb in a civilian area likely constituted a war crime.

Their return home was disrupted after renewed evacuation orders in September. The family fled once more to Nuseirat – paying $1,600 (£1,200) to hire a truck for a two-hour journey that should have taken 20 minutes.

They returned to the same apartment they’d kept paying rent for “in case
things got worse – which they did.”

That month was a fragile pause. AbuShammala described life as “on hold,” the
sound of explosions shaking the house each night. She worked when she could,
commuting to Deir al-Balah for her job with the Stars of Hope Society, helping
women with disabilities through a UN Women-funded programme.

“I do feel grateful for what I still have, and I know that compared to others,
my family and I are considered lucky. But we still live with fear and anxiety.
There’s also the sense of loss that isn’t always visible, the time and years
slipping away.”

Eleven days after the ceasefire was announced on 10 October, the family returned once again to Gaza. The walls they rebuilt in summer
were already cracking from fresh bombings. Water and gas were scarce.

“My neighborhood still needs time to heal. My school still needs time before
it can reopen its doors to students. And even when that time comes, nothing
will ever be the same again. No one can erase the memories.”

Yet Gaza City still feels like home. Now, each morning, the family returns to
work. “We all try in our own ways, to contribute to our country and remain
active members of our community despite everything we’re living through.”

AbuShammala and her sister walked through what was left of their
neighbourhood. The mosque and shop were gone; the Bar Association building was
badly damaged.

“Every beautiful place I once knew has turned into ashes. The suffering hasn’t
ended. The wounds of this city are still open.”