Rafah became my home after displacement. It is now being erased
On Wednesday, Haaretz reported that Israel is preparing to expand its "buffer zone", swallowing Rafah and its surrounding neighbourhoods in southern Gaza.
The city - once the last refuge for displaced Palestinians - has been reduced to rubble after weeks of relentless bombardment.
The few residents who remained after earlier evacuations have now been forced to flee once more, this time to a so-called "humanitarian zone" near Khan Younis and al-Mawasi - a site marked by starvation, repeated attacks and overwhelming suffering.
Since breaking the ceasefire in March, the Israeli military has continued carving the Gaza Strip into isolated zones as part of its ongoing project of territorial theft and ethnic cleansing.
Before October 2023, Rafah - a city covering nearly one-fifth of the Gaza Strip - was home to 350,000 residents. During the war, it gained international visibility as a supposed safe zone for one million displaced Palestinians.
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My family and I had also experienced displacement and sought refuge near Rafah after losing our home more than 20 years ago. It was not my childhood home, but it became a place I grew to cherish.
Despite viral social media posts urging the world to keep "all eyes on Rafah" - in the belief that international scrutiny might deter Israel from targeting vulnerable families sheltering in tents - the world has chosen to turn a blind eye and leave Rafah to an unknown fate.
But the destruction of a place does not erase its memory or the traces of life left behind by those who called it home.
Found refuge
Before we settled in Rafah, I spent the first eight years of my life with my grandparents in a house in the Khan Younis refugee camp, just west of the city. I considered it my true childhood home.
Unfortunately, we lived next to several Israeli army observation posts. I would open the door and see soldiers patrolling or stationed just metres away, within their fortified positions. We faced many difficulties due to their proximity until they ultimately demolished our house in 2000.
Though it was only a short visit, seeing Rafah for the first time left a lasting impression. It was bustling with people, full of life and shops
My uncles, grandfather and I all lived in that area. Our homes were close together, and we had wonderful neighbours.
It was on the night of Eid al-Fitr that the army came to demolish our homes, turning what should have been a night of joy into one of devastation.
It is a painful memory. I still yearn for that house. It holds some of the most beautiful moments from my early years.
After two years of moving from one temporary shelter to another following the destruction of our home, the local authorities eventually gave us a house in al-Fakhari, near Rafah.
This town was mostly agricultural and sparsely populated, with the feel of a quiet village. Over time, the arrival of displaced families like ours brought more life and activity to the area.
We moved into that house in 2002. Not long after, the government began to classify al-Fakhari as part of Rafah, treating it as one of the city's districts.
At the time, though, I had never truly been to Rafah - apart from one brief visit in 2003 when I was in middle school.
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We were preparing to buy Eid clothes, and my mother suggested we go to the Rafah market instead of the one in Khan Younis. We went after we broke our fasts, around 6pm (3pm GMT).
Though it was only a short visit, seeing Rafah for the first time left a lasting impression. It was bustling with people, full of life and shops. There was a well-known area in downtown Rafah called al-Awda roundabout, but we did not venture too deeply into it because we were not familiar with the city.
I remember my mother getting very tired from all the walking, and she sat near al-Awda Mosque - a large and beautiful mosque, one of Rafah's main landmarks.
We eventually returned home, but the memory of that day has stayed with me, becoming more vivid every time Rafah is mentioned.
Deepening ties
Many wars have befallen Gaza, and Rafah has remained resilient through them all - including the 2014 war, which claimed many lives in the city.
The situation became so dire that the health ministry was forced to place bodies in ice cream freezers due to a lack of space in morgues.
After successive wars in the Gaza Strip, Rafah residents began calling on the world to support the construction of a hospital, as it was the only city in Gaza without one. We all spoke up, repeating Rafah's name again and again, trying to amplify that demand.
My work in journalism led me to move between cities, and Rafah became part of that routine - mainly because of how close it was.
Government authorities eventually reclassified al-Fakhari as part of the city of Khan Younis. But our physical and emotional proximity to Rafah kept it close to our hearts.
I would visit occasionally when I had stories to film or write about, but I did not go regularly. I did not know much about Rafah's neighbourhoods until I was offered an unexpected opportunity that brought me there every week.
In 2020, an NGO suggested I lead educational science activities for children in a remote part of Rafah. These sessions were designed to support their schoolwork and give them a chance to learn in a more engaging environment.
I hesitated at first. I already worked full-time as a teacher and only had one day off: Sunday.
But I love supporting students in whatever way I can, so I gave up my day off and began travelling weekly to Tal al-Sultan, an area west of Rafah. That neighbourhood is now completely destroyed; its landmarks are erased.
But over those months, my connection to Rafah deepened.
I developed small rituals. I remembered my mother sitting to rest near al-Awda Mosque 17 years earlier. She is now ill and has struggled for years with spinal problems. I began donating to the mosque each week, asking God to accept this small offering and heal her.
Every visit began the same way: I would stop at the donation box near the mosque before continuing to Tal al-Sultan. Rafah welcomed me each week.
The children at the centre would wait at the door to greet me with joy. I tried to bring them happiness through recreational activities, and they returned it tenfold with their warmth, eagerness and gratitude.
Shattered refuge
From October 2023 to May 2024, Rafah hosted more than a million displaced people. The army falsely promoted it to the world as a "safe" and "humanitarian" zone. It received aid and opened its doors to everyone.
When the ground invasion began in Khan Younis in December 2023, we could no longer reach the city for even the most basic supplies.
For over a year, we relied on Rafah. But when the army began its operations there, our area became trapped between two front lines, and life grew increasingly difficult.
I hear and feel every missile that strikes the city. We see the smoke rise to the sky. The destruction is relentless - without red lines, without pause.
For a week now, the army has been bulldozing, demolishing and levelling the Mirage area next to us. It is the northern gateway to Rafah, an agricultural zone and a vital source of food for the south. It helped feed Gaza during the repeated closures of the crossings.
Now, we hear constant shelling. Heavy missiles fall as if they were throwing stones - without mercy.
Many families are still trapped in northern Rafah. They have chosen to die in their homes rather than flee again.
Displacement has been a bitter, exhausting experience for everyone, which is why so many refuse to leave. We, too, have stayed. We do not want to flee.
Displacement has been a bitter, exhausting experience for everyone, which is why so many refuse to leave. We, too, have stayed. We do not want to flee
Each night, we pray that we will survive another day. The sounds of bombing are terrifying, but even worse are the moments when warplanes open fire on the areas around us.
Rafah - and every part of Gaza - is a land of freedom because its people seek to live in peace and dignity, free on their land, without wars or occupation.
We are struggling to survive here. Rafah is barely breathing beneath the bombs, bulldozers and destruction.
It has not remained on its land, but Rafah will remain in the hearts of those who knew it as the fortress of steadfastness that the people of Gaza have always known.
The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.
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