When I was a child, I dreamed of traveling the world, exploring new cultures and learning new things. I longed for a journey of discovery. Living in Gaza was like sitting in the stands, watching the world’s achievements – its development, its progress, its technological wonders – unfold from afar without being able to participate.

It was both a refuge and a cage—its regular rhythm comforting but repetitive, its streets too familiar, its horizons too narrow for the aspirations I carried within me. I cherished its warmth and closeness, but the allure of life beyond its borders was irresistible. I was ready to leave the moment the opportunity came my way.

This year I have embarked on a journey, but it is not the journey I dreamed of. Instead of a carefree voyage of exploration abroad, I found myself navigating a genocidal war and a struggle for survival within the narrow strip of Palestinian land I call home. Along the way, I learned a lot – about myself and my inner world.

The “journey” began in January. While most people welcomed the new year under skies filled with fireworks, song and joy, mine issued evacuation orders. Crumpled papers fell on us with a message written in Arabic: “Nuseirat camp is very dangerous.” Move south for your safety.

I never thought leaving home would be this difficult. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who doesn’t have a strong connection to home or country. But I was wrong. Leaving was like giving up a part of my soul.

My family and I headed to Rafah to stay with my aunt, who welcomed us warmly. Although I felt some comfort there, all I could think about was my home. So I welcomed February, the “month of love,” feeling incredibly homesick and realizing how much I loved the house I grew up in.

In mid-February, the Israeli army withdrew from Nuseirat, and we hurried back home. It was one of the best moments of the war – and of my entire life – to find my house still intact. Its front door was broken, our belongings were stolen, and rubble from the bombing of our neighbors’ house was smashed inside. But it was still there.

Even though we were surrounded by devastation, the ruins in our area were still warmer than any safe place anywhere else in the world. For the first time in my life, I – the grandson of refugees – felt like I belonged somewhere. My soul, my identity – they all belong here.

The joy of returning home was soon overshadowed by the reality of war. March came and the holy month entered. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and togetherness. But this year was full of loss, separation, and deprivation. There were no shared meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray in – just ruins.

Instead of calm, we witnessed relentless bombing and terrorism. The bombs fell without warning, each explosion shattering any sense of security we might have had. We have been punished, treated “like human animals” – as their Defense Minister said – for an unknown crime.

In April, Eid al-Fitr came and went, stripped of the joy that characterizes this cherished Islamic holiday. There was no children’s laughter to wake us up in the morning, nor noisy preparations or decorations to receive guests. Death was the only visitor to Palestinian homes in Gaza.

Then Mai came along with an opportunity I had been waiting for all my life. My family managed to raise enough money to pay an Egyptian company to help me leave Gaza. The process was full of uncertainty. There were rumors of fraud, bribes and refusals.

The thought of escaping the relentless horror around me was intoxicating. I wanted freedom, but it came at a cost. I had to leave my entire family and home with the uncertain possibility of returning.

To outsiders, this may seem like a simple choice: follow your dreams, take a chance and walk away! But for me, it was not easy at all.

Late in the afternoon, I was sitting with my sister Aya on the roof of our house under a sky full of spy planes when I realized the true weight of my decision. Just 15 years old, Aya was full of energy and hope, her light brown eyes sparkling with ambition. “I want to learn programming like you,” she said excitedly. “I want to start my own business like you. I want to improve my English like you.”

How do I leave her and my family in the midst of war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya stayed behind, struggling to eat, sleep and dream? How can I live a life elsewhere, knowing that my sister is having nightmares alone? How can I abandon the land that made me who I am?

In that moment, I realized that my soul would never be free if I left Gaza now, if I rejected it as a place of rubble and desolation. I realized that my identity was tied to this place, this struggle.

When I first told my family that I wanted to stay, they refused to accept it. They insisted that I leave for my life, fearing for my safety. After a long hesitation, they finally respected my decision, but their fear did not completely dissipate.

A few days later, the Israeli army occupied the Rafah crossing, cutting off contact with the outside world. I did not regret my decision.

As the Israeli army continues to attack civilian areas across Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it is our turn to host our relatives. We welcomed them not as displaced people but as our family. It is our duty to share and stand with each other in times of need. By the fall, there were 30 of us in our house.

Over the summer, we began to feel the increasing impact of restrictions not only on humanitarian aid but on all paid goods. Basic food items have disappeared from the markets. Relief organizations are struggling to distribute food.

It was increasingly clear that those who survived the bombings would face a different, slower death by starvation. Food rationing became so severe that survival turned into a fierce competition. Life seemed like a jungle where only the strongest could survive.

In the fall, hunger was exacerbated by rain and wind. We saw people forced to live in tents overcome by misery.

In November, a family tragedy occurred. My eight-year-old cousin Ahmed, who was like a little brother to me, fell from the third floor of our building and suffered a brain hemorrhage. The thought of losing him was overwhelming.

We quickly transferred him to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which was crowded with people wounded in airstrikes and lacked the equipment needed to perform brain scans. We tried going to two nearby hospitals, but were told that they also couldn’t do anything for him. By nightfall, we managed to find a medical center that could help him, but it was far away. Sending him in an ambulance after dark was too risky – the vehicle could be targeted by a drone as many people had. It was a choice between two deaths.

We decided to hold out hope and sent Ahmed to the ambulance. Even on the darkest days, miracles happen. Ahmed arrived safely, underwent the necessary surgery and survived. He began to recover, although he still needs physical therapy, which he cannot get in Gaza.

While we were worrying and caring for Ahmed, December came. We soon heard unexpected news from Syria: the brutal regime there had collapsed. I felt very happy.

We have stood in Gaza in solidarity with the Syrian people for a long time. We know the suffering of war and oppression, and we were truly happy to see the Syrian people finally free. Their liberation was the first time we saw justice prevail, which gave us a sense of hope. He reminded us that one day, we might experience this kind of relief, in a liberated homeland where we no longer fear for our lives.

As the year came to a close, we carefully followed the news regarding the ceasefire talks, but 2024 now ends without a moment of respite for us Palestinians.

This year-long journey has left its mark on me: white streaks in my black hair, a frail body, ill-fitting clothes, dark shadows under my eyes, and a tired, lost look. But it’s not just my physical appearance that has changed. This year has burned my soul like wildfire.

But even the ashes carry seeds. I feel like something new has emerged within me – a determination to stay back, to persevere, to change, to withstand all attempts to erase my memories, my identity, and my people.

The death and destruction were immense, but they did not succeed in bringing me down. I feel a deep desire to live – for many more years – in Gaza, in Palestine. I feel that our duty towards the martyrs is to resist, stay on this earth, rebuild and live. It is our responsibility to take back our country.

I was no longer the man I once was, filled with dreams of leaving Gaza and living an easy life far away. I will remain in my homeland, and I will continue to cling to the belief that peace, no matter how fragile, can one day return to Gaza. I will continue to dream of a Palestine where its people can finally be free.

The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.