Returning to Gaza
by Moh Telbani
My grandfather was a farmer in Askalan, once in Palestine, which is now Ashkelon, Israel. In 1948 he was forced to leave his home and farm with his wife (my grandmother) and two daughters, under the threat of fire and bombs. They left with nothing, though the family had been living in peace. My grandfather had a beautiful life, a nice farm, and a great family, when suddenly the family was forced to flee to Gaza. When he arrived there he had nowhere to stay, no money, nothing—he was homeless, depressed, with no plans and no future. In time the United Nations organization called UNRWA arrived and supplied tents, food, and needed medications for families like my grandfather’s.
Eventually my grandfather found work as a teacher, and he worked hard until he had the means to educate his young family—my two aunts, and then two sons, one of whom was my father. My father studied and got his degree due to my grandfather’s work and sacrifice, and eventually he became a math teacher. My grandfather died, and then my grandmother; my father continued to work hard and eventually bought land in Gaza, where he built a small house for us.
As you know, over the years there have been many wars, but never one like the one that began on October 7, 2023.
Because of this war my father and the rest of our family were forced to leave our home that my father built for us, after all the years of hard work, and all the memories and emotions we left there. We lived there for more than 20 years. I was raised there. My two brothers and one sister were born there. We had nice neighbors. As kids we used to play football together after we did our homework. Never imagining the possibility that we would never return, we didn’t take much with us. We left everything behind, hoping we’d be back in a few days or something, and now it’s been 14 months.
Keep us breathing fire!
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