Life in exile haunted by echoes of war

Living away from Gaza brings neither peace nor freedom from trauma.

Illustration by Anna Fadiah

By Hana Salah

The relentless noise of war—missiles, explosions, drones, and anguished cries—still reverberates in my mind. Although I left Gaza nearly a year ago, these sounds haunt me daily. In Cairo, I live in a physical sense of peace, but my mind remains captive to the horrors I witnessed during those early months of conflict.

When a plane flies overhead, my heart races, fearing it might be a warplane. Fireworks send me into a panic, as they remind me of the bombs that once rained down around us. I had hoped exile would bring safety, but instead, it has become an extension of the war—a state of existence overshadowed by memories of destruction, loss, and despair.

The trauma is not just my own; it pervades the lives of Palestinians in exile. Though we have escaped the immediate danger, the emotional and psychological scars remain. The sounds of bombs are gone, but in their place are echoes of grief, stories of loss, and the daily struggles of trying to rebuild shattered lives.

My family, like many others, left everything behind in search of safety. But exile has proven to be fraught with its own challenges. My father, once a proud breadwinner, struggled for months to find work. When he finally secured a job, the salary barely covered our basic needs. Debt looms over us, and the memories of war compound our misery.

Despite the physical distance, Gaza is never far from our thoughts. Messaging apps deliver a constant stream of news—bombardments, mass killings, and suffering. The images and updates tether us to the place we fled, keeping the wounds fresh.

My friends in exile face similar hardships. Elia, a friend sent to Cairo to pursue her studies, lives with unrelenting sorrow. Shortly after her arrival, her family back in Gaza stopped responding to her calls. Days later, she learned they had been killed in an airstrike. Her grief consumed her, derailing her studies and leaving her unable to afford rent. Alone, orphaned, and on the brink of homelessness, Elia’s pain is a stark reminder that exile offers no true refuge.

For others, the war has left indelible scars. Rayan, a student in Cairo, lost her entire family in a single explosion. The blast destroyed her home, leaving only her injured mother and a married sister as survivors. Rayan's dreams of a bright future have been replaced by haunting memories of her father’s encouraging words and the laughter of her younger sister.

Another friend, Mia, faces her own struggles. She and her sister managed to leave Gaza, but their parents and brother were left behind due to restrictive crossing regulations. Mia lives in fear and isolation, barely leaving the apartment due to harassment and safety concerns. The weight of separation and anxiety has visibly altered her—she says she barely recognizes herself anymore.

These stories are not unique; they are the reality for countless Palestinians displaced by war. The sorrow, isolation, and struggle to survive in unfamiliar lands define our shared experience.

Even as a ceasefire takes effect, the prospect of lasting peace feels distant. More than 120 lives have been lost since its announcement, a grim reminder that the fighting may pause, but the suffering continues. Gaza, once home, is no longer livable. The blockade, economic hardship, and constant threat of violence make it a prison for those who remain.

Rebuilding will take years, if not decades, and the scars of war will linger long after the physical damage is repaired. For those of us in exile, the question looms: can we ever rebuild our lives away from home?

Despite the challenges, my family has made a decision to move forward. Exile is not a choice we made lightly, but it offers a chance—however slim—at a future free from the immediate shadow of war. Yet, starting over in a foreign land comes with its own hardships.

Rebuilding our lives means grappling with grief while navigating financial insecurity and cultural alienation. It means finding ways to honor the memories of those we’ve lost while forging a path forward. And it means holding onto hope, even when it feels impossibly distant.

The war in Gaza may not follow us physically, but its presence is inescapable. The echoes of explosions, the cries of those we’ve lost, and the weight of trauma remain with us. Exile, once a promise of safety, has become a continuation of the pain and struggle we hoped to escape.

As Palestinians, our resilience is tested daily. We yearn for the lives we once had, even as we know they are gone forever. The challenge now is to find strength in our shared experiences, to support one another in exile, and to strive for a future where peace is not just a fleeting hope but a tangible reality.

For now, we carry the weight of war with us, living in its shadow while dreaming of a brighter tomorrow.