My grandfather always used to say: We left Jaffa with our doors still open, hoping to return the next day but that tomorrow has grown long, and we are still waiting to return.
We are originally from Jaffa, the city that never fades from our memory no matter how much time passes
My grandparents chose Gaza to be their refuge after a long journey of displacement, believing it would be only a temporary stop until they could return to Jaffa. But the days stretched on, and the temporary became permanent.
My grandfather passed away here in Gaza, carrying in his heart a longing for return that was never fulfilled. Then my father followed him, having spent his whole life holding onto his father’s words: “Never forget Jaffa.”
As the years passed and especially over these past two our home was destroyed as well, and what remained of our memories turned to ashes. Today, we find ourselves displaced once again in southern Gaza, carrying the same pain our ancestors once carried.
For us, the war did not begin on October 7; it began the day we were forced from our homeland, the day our right to a dignified life and safety was taken from us long, long ago.