Gaza Herald _Before leaving Gaza, my family relied on a neighborhood generator for electricity. Even that fragile lifeline became unreliable as fuel shortages forced it to shut down for most of the day. More often than not, the flashlight on a mobile phone was the only source of light protecting us from complete darkness.
Shortly after arriving in Italy, I had to move to a different hotel room because the one I was staying in had already been reserved. When the hotel owner came to tell me, he apologized over and over, explaining that the bathroom light in the new room wasn’t working but assuring me that an electrician would repair it the following day.
His kindness genuinely touched me, and I smiled in appreciation. At the same time, I couldn’t stop thinking about the cruel reality my family and millions of Palestinians continue to endure in Gaza. There, having a private bathroom is itself an unimaginable privilege, let alone worrying about whether the light inside works. Even now, I try to call my family only during daylight so I can actually see their faces. None of us talks about the lack of electricity anymore because it has become another painful part of everyday life under Israel’s devastating assault and blockade.
Just two days ago, I was jolted awake by what sounded like explosions. My heart raced as I leaped out of bed, convinced that airstrikes had followed me into exile. The blasts were so loud that my entire body began trembling. I rushed onto the balcony, searching the sky, desperate to understand what was happening.
I immediately called a friend living nearby, who calmly explained that the sounds were fireworks celebrating Italy’s Republic Day, marking the historic referendum in 1946 when Italians voted to replace the monarchy with a republic.
Relief washed over me once I realized the explosions were part of a celebration and not another bombardment. Yet my body refused to accept what my mind already knew. Every burst of fireworks echoed like the bombs that have relentlessly devastated Gaza, triggering memories I could not escape.
A Trauma That Crossed Borders
Around me, families gathered in celebration, filling the streets with happiness and excitement. I wanted so badly to embrace the festive atmosphere and share in their joy. Instead, every explosion in the sky transported me back to Gaza, where real bombs continue to fall, claiming Palestinian lives and shattering families every single day.
Although I have physically survived Israel’s genocidal war on Gaza, I continue to carry its scars wherever I go. Distance has removed me from the battlefield, but it has not freed me from its trauma. The war remains deeply embedded in my memory, my instincts, and my body.
I often find myself asking a question I still cannot answer: even if I managed to escape Gaza alive, will I ever truly escape the trauma that the genocide left behind?
