Ola Almadhoun is a Palestinian journalist and communications specialist based in Washington, D.C. With firsthand experience covering multiple wars in Gaza, she previously worked with UNRWA and U.N. Radio before joining the Middle East Broadcasting Networks (Alhurra TV and Radio Sawa) in the U.S. (LinkedIn) (X)
When I decided to write about my personal experience in Gaza, words failed me. How could one describe a city that is both home and exile, both life and death? Ultimately, I set my pen aside, though I have always loved to write in ink, believing the words come out most sincerely that way. But when it came to Gaza—the city I love, the city I grieve for—my heart bled too heavily for language to keep up, especially on the eve of the second anniversary of the Oct. 7 attacks, a moment that changed everything while repeating the horrors of the past.
Gaza is where I was born, where I lived through wars and Intifadas (uprisings) and where my memories are rooted. Like the history of the Israel-Palestine conflict, it is a city of contradictions: sometimes loud, sometimes silent; sometimes full of life, sometimes gasping for breath. It is both homeland and exile, both a city of wars and—in the hearts of its people—a city of peace.
This is the paradox of Gaza: a city shaped by resilience and resistance; by beauty and brutality. To understand Gaza is to understand how ordinary lives, families and histories have been marked by displacement, war and a longing for normalcy.
My story, and my family's story, is one among millions.
Gaza is, first and foremost, home. It is the smell of the sea breeze at dawn, the bustling markets, the warmth of family gatherings and the laughter that somehow survives amid adversity. I think of my grandmother's stories about Palestine—specifically her quiet life in Al-Majdal (Ashkelon today) and of life before the 1948 Nakba (catastrophe), when Israel displaced her and hundreds of thousands of Palestinians. They did not choose to leave their homes or to become refugees. They were forced into exile by violence and fear.
I think of my siblings and of growing up in a war-torn city refusing to forego hope. These are the images of Gaza that never make the headlines: weddings filled with music, poets reciting verses and students filling classrooms—even during bombardments.
The story of my grandmother's forced exile echoes painfully in my life. Just as she did not choose to leave her home, Palestinians in Gaza did not choose displacement after Oct. 7.
- Ola Almadhoun
The story of my grandmother's forced exile echoes painfully in my life. Just as she did not choose to leave her home, Palestinians in Gaza did not choose displacement after Oct. 7. Yet, once again, entire families were uprooted overnight, carrying only what they could as Israel leveled neighborhoods. The cycle of loss—then and now—reminds us that, for Palestinians, exile was never a choice but a recurring reality imposed through war and violence.
This repeated experience of loss is not only written in family stories—it is reflected in Gaza's demographics today. Statistically, Gaza is a very young community. Almost half of its 2.2 million people are under the age of 18, and over two-thirds are under 30. The median age is only 19.5 years, meaning half of Gaza's people are not yet adults.
About two-thirds of residents—around 1.6 to 1.7 million people—are registered refugees. Most Gazans have lived their entire lives under blockade, carrying the weight of youth and exile. Yet, they continue to dream, learn and build. Gaza is alive, even when the world imagines it only as a site of death.
My grandmother often said that she never wanted to leave her home. Heavy bombardment and the nearness of death forced her and her family to flee. She was about my age then. Today, I recognize her fear as my own, having lost my home in Gaza and, with it, the simple rhythm of seeing my parents once or twice a year.
My last visit was in May 2023. I did not know it would be the last time I would see my father or feel able to visit Gaza. In this reality, my grandmother's story is now mine, alongside countless others.
In 1948, around 750,000 Palestinians were displaced. Seventy-five years later, in 2023, the United Nations formally commemorated the Nakba for the first time, acknowledging that the catastrophe still defines Palestinian life. Today, about 5.9 million Palestinian refugees are registered with the U.N. Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA), with more than 1.5 million living in 58 recognized camps across the region.
And yet Gaza itself is an exile. Refugees like my grandmother carried only what they could—sometimes loaded into trucks, sometimes walking through exhaustion—leaving behind their homes forever. They were absorbed into Gaza, which became both shelter and prison. Their refugee status has since been passed down to their descendants: children and grandchildren who never saw their ancestral villages but live with that loss every day.
I am one of them. For us, exile is not a metaphor but a reality. It is the loss of land, the inability to travel freely and the sense that even when you are "home," you are still away from something that was forcibly taken. Gaza holds its people close while reminding them of what they lost. It is a paradoxical place: one of belonging and estrangement.
This paradox was never clearer than in October 2023. On Oct. 6, Gaza was alive. People went to the market. Families gathered along the seashore. Students studied for exams. Despite hardship, life persisted as it always had.
But on Oct. 7 and in the days that followed, Gaza became a ghost town. The same streets that echoed with children's laughter were silenced under Israeli bombardment. Homes collapsed. Families were displaced. The familiar sense of insecurity became overwhelming.
The rupture between Oct. 6 and 7 is measured in demolished homes, in the killed and injured, in vanished neighborhoods and in a dark scene where the air carries the smell of blood and gunpowder. Between Sep. 24 and Oct. 1 of this year alone, Israel killed over 429 Palestinians and injured nearly 1,550. Since Oct. 7, 2023, Gaza's Ministry of Health, as cited by the OCHA, the U.N.'s humanitarian office, reports over 67,000 killed and more than 168,000 injured.
Gaza holds its people close while reminding them of what they lost. It is a paradoxical place: one of belonging and estrangement.
- Ola Almadhoun
Among them are thousands who died simply trying to reach food aid: over 2,500 people killed and 18,500 wounded since May 2025. Hunger itself has become deadly, with 455 malnutrition-related deaths, including nearly 151 children, documented since the war began—mostly in recent months.
Yet Gaza is more than its destruction. It is a city rich in history, rivaling Jericho in antiquity. Historians trace its origins across five thousand years. Every corner and alley in Gaza City reflects the civilizations that once thrived there, with remnants from the Canaanite, Pharaonic, Greek, Byzantine, Christian and Islamic eras.
Gaza has always been a home for different religions and ethnicities. A Jewish quarter, inhabited by several Gazan families of Jewish faith, once stood in the Zaytoun neighborhood of eastern Gaza. Its name stems from a group of Palestinian Jewish merchants who lived there before the Israeli occupation of Palestine, engaging in trade and agriculture. Though its residents eventually left, the name remained.
And yet, in recent bombardments, even this neighborhood has not been spared.
To the east of Gaza also lies the Shuja'iyya quarter—the first foothold for Kurds in the city. It was named after Shuja al-Din al-Kurdi, a commander from Mosul in northern Iraq who joined the army of Sultan Salah al-Din al-Ayyubi. This is Gaza: a city of civilization and history, of harmony and integration among different peoples, religions and communities.
Yet, beneath these personal and historical experiences lie hard realities. Gaza has long been trapped in one of the world's most severe economic crises. By the end of 2024, the collapse became unprecedented. The Gaza Strip's economy contracted by more than 80% of its GDP, accompanied by an 80% unemployment rate—the highest in its history.
Basic infrastructure is also fragile. After Oct. 7, Israel cut all electricity to Gaza and systematically targeted hospitals, schools, mosques, homes and vital infrastructure. Clean water is increasingly scarce, and healthcare systems are collapsing under the strain of constant emergencies. Israel's blockade—imposed since 2007—had already left Gaza isolated from the world.
However, these restrictions have only worsened since Oct. 7, further strangling trade, investment and hope for long-term development. These pressures—collapsing healthcare, recurrent displacement and extreme joblessness—have shaped daily life for years.
Yet even here, contradictions persist. According to the World Bank, Gaza has one of the highest literacy rates in the region, reaching 98% in 2022 across the Strip and the similarly occupied West Bank. Young people continue to pursue education as a form of resistance. Artists and entrepreneurs create spaces of hope amid destruction and scarcity.
It is a place where survival and creativity exist side by side—where despair meets defiance.
Gaza's geopolitics often dominate headlines, overshadowing its people. The political situation is complicated, as international leaders argue over policies and initiatives at summits aimed at reaching an agreement between Hamas and Israel to stop the war and achieve a ceasefire. Yet after two years of non-stop bombardment and stalled talks, civilians continue to bear the consequences and endure devastating conditions amid little improvement.
The humanitarian situation is equally catastrophic. Famine and starvation are widespread, while humanitarian access remains severely restricted, with aid convoys frequently obstructed or looted. "This nightmare must end," U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres declared on July 29, rightly calling for an immediate and permanent humanitarian ceasefire, the unconditional release of all hostages held in Gaza and full humanitarian access across the enclave.
Gaza is often reduced to headlines: ceasefires, negotiations and body counts. But those who live and die there know Gaza differently. It is a place of families, of dignity, of humor and humanity—even amid the rubble. It is also a city deliberately starved, bombed and cut off from the world.
My family's story mirrors Gaza's contradictions. My grandmother's displacement informed a life of storytelling of her lost home. My father died during the last war—his heart could not bear the pain of displacement. My mother, grieving both her husband and her home, developed dementia.
My siblings and I carry these wounds, alongside the memories of growing up in a city always on the edge of war.
The exile of Palestinians from their homeland echoes in our present: a second erasure after Oct. 7—different in form but similar in feeling—with home becoming exile across generations. These are both personal tragedies and a collective experience. Nearly every family in Gaza can tell a similar story of loss, of resilience, of homes destroyed and rebuilt, of loved ones buried too soon.
The question is not whether Gaza will survive—it always has. The question is whether the world will continue to look away while an ancient city is transformed into a graveyard. To destroy Gaza is to destroy civilization itself. And yet, Gaza still breathes, still resists and still insists on being more than exile in the wake of October 2023.
It insists on being home.
