In May 2025, just two days shy of my birthday, my sister Safa and her family were killed in their home in Gaza by an Israeli airstrike. The news shattered me, awakening memories from my own childhood in Gaza that I had carried quietly for years. Amid this relentless bombardment and suffering in Gaza over the past two years—which are nothing new, but seem to get more intense and monstrous with every passing day—I recall the beautiful, hopeful moments I lived there. In recalling these memories, I am not only grieving a dear sister but also answering a question I have been asked repeatedly by fellow Americans: Why do Palestinians in Gaza, despite relentless Israeli bombardment and mass casualties, remain steadfast in their commitment to their land, refusing to leave and resisting Israel’s efforts to expand its occupation of Palestine? Here’s my answer.
Though I have lived outside Palestine for more than fifteen years, my core memories of growing up in Gaza are of the resilience and joy of the Palestinian people, even amid Israeli occupation and everyday life challenges. Their actions are not simply acts of resistance—they are choices rooted in love for home, community, and tradition.
I grew up in the Deir al-Balah refugee camp in central Gaza in the early 1990s. At the time, it was the smallest refugee camp in Gaza, hosting between 10,000 and 15,000 Palestinian refugees. We had limited access to food, and our farming, fishing, and manufacturing were restricted. Israeli soldiers searched homes and detained people. Israeli curfews and checkpoints limited our freedom of movement; when we would visit my aunt in a nearby refugee camp, soldiers well equipped with rifles terrified me as they stopped us and searched all cars.
Illustration by Christopher Cruz
Our house was near the sea, sitting square and modest, with two rooms and a tall fig tree in the small courtyard outside. Low walls separated our house from our neighbors’, which made it easy to hear conversations next door. It felt like we were living together as one big household—my neighbors’ houses were like second homes to me. As a little boy, my neighbors often looked after me while my older siblings were at school, and my parents, who were teachers in nearby refugee camps, worked. They offered me snacks, tea, and company as I did my homework, watched cartoons, or napped. The sense of being watched over and cared for created a quiet safety amid the uncertainty of life under occupation. We children were all like siblings. When our mother needed an onion, some salt, or some sugar, she would call over the wall, and one of us children would fetch it. These small gestures, repeated countless times, wove a fabric of care that bound our families together.
When a relative passed, neighbors helped with funeral preparations and maintained a house of condolence for three days, a practice rooted in Muslim communal mourning traditions. Everyone pitched in to prepare meals, organize the tent, and provide comfort for the grieving family. Weddings were equally collective efforts, with neighbors and relatives assisting with everything from decoration to food preparation. Our refugee camp was home to people from diverse cultural and political backgrounds, who hailed from towns and cities across the land before the mass displacement and dispossession of the Nakba in 1948. Even though we didn’t all share the same traditions and values, we were always there for one another.
When my family first arrived, the refugee camp didn’t yet have electricity. I slept with my five siblings in a single room, huddled under a few blankets to protect ourselves against the winter cold. We spent countless nights playing games and chatting about our family’s history of forced migration to Gaza. We lit candles; one of our favorite games was to describe to one another the shapes we each imagined seeing on the room walls, formed by the candle flames on the cracks and faded paint. We would create elaborate tales about the shapes in the cracked walls, turning imperfections into fantastical creatures or imaginary landscapes. Our descriptions, mostly upbeat and cheerful, warmed our hearts, even though our bodies were cold. It was as if the magical shadows on those cracked walls, lit by candlelight, wanted to bring us comfort, defying the gap-ridden asbestos roof above us that let in wind and drops of rain, as if conspiring with the cold to add to our discomfort.
Sometimes, our mother joined us to tell stories—of her childhood as a second-generation Palestinian refugee in the al-Shati camp, of meeting my father there in the late 1970s, of my parents’ lives as teachers in Libya and rural Saudi Arabia, before returning to Gaza in 1992. Her stories sparked my imagination and offered me visions of freedom—a life beyond the confines of occupation, a life that was worth living, a life I would choose instead of the one I was forced to live.
Our mornings were simple but joyful. My mother prepared qalayet bandora—a Palestinian dish of tomatoes, garlic, and chili peppers fried in oil—served with bread and mint tea. During breakfast, we talked about school, chores, neighbors, and the day ahead. Politics rarely entered our home, though we listened to Radio Israel in Arabic. That station had the best signal and was the most relevant, given that we were living under Israeli occupation. In addition to providing us with Israel’s take on the news, the programs gave us the weather forecast, a reading selection from the Quran, additional Islamic teachings, and social and cultural highlights.
As children, we coped with the limitations of the world around us through creativity and play. We played card games, sang songs, and sometimes improvised small performances for each other, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
I remember taking walks with my grandfather on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, the salty wind tangling my hair as we listened to the waves crash. We would meet fishermen as they returned to land with fresh sardines. My siblings and I treasured these sardines, fried in oil with a squeeze of lemon. These early mornings, walking along the sand while the sun rose, offered moments of peace and reflection, a reminder that life’s beauty persisted despite the hardships around us.
During the summer, when our small room became too hot, we slept outside with the neighbors’ children. We spent our afternoons swimming, playing cards, and listening to music, or simply lying on the sand and watching clouds drift above.
In addition to my family and community, nature occupied a large part of my life in Palestine. I was especially attached to the house sparrows that nested in the cracks in our roof, and the laughing doves that accompanied me on my morning walks to school. I remember counting the sparrows’ nests, and imagining each bird’s daily adventures. Their chirping and fluttering offered me comfort and continuity; when I left Gaza in 2010, I remember feeling sad that I might never see them again. In my mind’s eye, I can still see them flying overhead, or perched on the roofs of the houses I passed, adding color and joy to the cloudy, cold mornings.
Although I have now resided overseas for more than a decade, my memories of Gaza live with me still. So do the people of Palestine, with their enduring dreams of freedom and peace. As I recall my childhood, I pray for the safety of my remaining family in Gaza. The endurance of Palestinians in the face of displacement, violence, and loss is not only a testament to our resistance but also to the power of memory, community, and culture to sustain life against overwhelming odds.
This is why, when asked how Palestinians remain so committed to the land we call home, I speak about the sparrows, the qalayet bandora, and the imaginary creatures that came to life in the candlelight on our walls. I want you to understand that Gaza is more than a site of conflict and suffering. It is a place of vibrant human life, filled with families who cook together, celebrate life together, and comfort each other in moments of grief. It is a place where children run barefoot on sandy beaches, chase sparrows across rooftops, and listen to their mothers’ stories, dreaming of better futures. These are the memories that shape the Palestinian spirit: ordinary, human, resilient, and full of hope.