
‘Gaza welcomes you.’
This sentence, emblazoned on a sign at the entrance to Gaza City, reflects the hopes of over a year of displaced Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.
As media reports suggest the finalization of a ceasefire agreement, nostalgia, which has never been extinguished, ignites the emotions of the displaced.
The Gaza Valley, whose people were displaced from Gaza City and the north, became divided into five enclaves after the occupation of the Gaza Strip. These enclaves included the northern areas of Gaza City and its governorates, and the southern areas comprising Al-Wusta, Khan Yunis, and Rafah.
Displaced people imagine the sight of their return, eagerly anticipating the moment. From their worn-out tents, they endure the harsh seasons of their forced exile, longing for the day of freedom. Their wretched displacement weighs them down, and they yearn to cast it off their debilitating backs, strained by the weight, oppression, and death of displacement—often an escape from and into death.
Hopefully, they see their suffering as a labor of birth, emerging from the depths of pain.
Like a lost toddler searching for their mother’s warm embrace, displaced people long to see the words ‘Gaza welcomes you’ once again.
Surrounded by prolonged oppression and breathing through the destruction and fire, they tried to survive in circumstances where there was no choice, remembering at such times every moment they addressed themselves and the remaining loved ones, most of whom were lost to war and many of whom were absent in various ways. And there are echoes of internal sounds—those that have never ceased to whisper, “Reel of bend… For sure, the last one, let’s go back.”
As a lost toddler searching for their mother’s warm lap, displaced people are eager to see the sign with its three simple words: ‘Gaza welcomes you.’
The displaced are well aware that this sign may no longer exist due to the bombing and destruction that has altered the city’s landscape.
The anticipated tears may overflow like the sea of Gaza, unable to be contained along the coast.
They know all too well that their sights will probably fail them at first glance—and in many moments—from distinguishing their passage through the streets and roads of this city and from locating this sign. But it doesn’t matter to them at that anticipated moment.
In fact, their hearts, with their fast-paced precision, will guide them back to the city. The dirt and tenderness of Gaza, infused with the blood of its martyrs, will be the truest evidence. The pulse in their veins, stilled by the absence and forced exile into extermination, will beat again. Their blood will no longer be clotted, their skin will sense the intuition of the city, and their remaining arteries will pump life back into them—never letting them down.
Gaza, despite its oppression, welcomes them—a city of miraculous contradictions, one that its people love unconditionally, even as it unintentionally feeds on the lives and blood of its righteous sons. These sons are oppressed and deprived of the city, yet most of them would not want to belong anywhere else. Gaza’s name, its condition, and the feelings of its people towards it are best expressed in the Arabic sentiment: “I love it to a unique extent, as if it were tied to my soul.”
A mixture of emotions dominates the scene. Tears, long trapped behind tired, stressful eyelids, will be released immediately after the announcement. The anticipated cries may overflow like the sea of Gaza—tears that even the coast cannot contain. Nerves, already damaged by this Holocaust, will regain some of their nature, intensifying with anticipation. You can now feel the scars of our souls, or what remains of them, and touch them with eyes, truth, and metaphor.
The scent of our martyrs lingers in every corridor of waiting, as if they have risen at this moment. One can almost feel the presence of their remaining relatives. A sense of spiritual fulfillment looms upon their return, despite the systematic starvation they endured.
Every missing person feels even more absent, and it is time to acknowledge that loss. There is an unbroken desire to kiss every inch of the city’s soil once wounded feet stop striving. Gratitude swells for the “North Guards,” who ensured that Gaza and its northern governorates were not abandoned. The Resistance—those who never faltered—will be celebrated for their faith, certainty, and unwavering commitment.
A state of spiritual satiety will envelop the people upon their return, despite every systematic attempt at starvation. The sounds of postponed reunions between the remaining diaspora of loved ones will echo north and south. Eyes that have remained sleepless for nearly 15 months will not close until the dream of returning is realized, even if it is to rubble.
Here comes the time for the fulfillment of the promise—long embraced by the destroyed city’s walls and planned by the oppressed hands of the bereaved: “Promise to rebuild it,” and “It will remain your land, Gaza.”
This blend of sensations defies expression, leaving us with only this sentiment: “Feelings that lived are better described by experience than words.”
To every spot, alley, hallway, road, neighborhood, roundabout, and street in Gaza and northern Gaza—to Sheikh Radwan, Saraya, Jalaa, Nasr, Al-Wehda, and Tall Al-Hawa; to Zaitoon, Al-Shejaia, Al-Daraj; to Sheikh Ajlin, the Beach, Yarmouk, Samar, Saftawi, Jabalia, the Camps, the old city; and to Beit Lahia, Beit Hanoun, Tal Al-Za’atar, Beer Al-Na’jah, and countless other places engraved in our memories—they will never be forgotten.
The moment is coming, the clock is ticking. When will it strike?
Originally published in Quds News Network