As the world marks the 78th anniversary of Nakba Day, 4 humanitarian workers from Islamic Relief Palestine share what ‘home’ means to them.
A memory suspended between what once was but is no longer
For me, ‘home’ is no longer just walls and a roof. It has become a memory suspended between what once was but is no longer. Whenever I hear the word, small details rush to mind – details that once shaped my life; an apartment I finished with care and love a year before the war began, furnished with the most beautiful pieces, and warmth in every corner. There was my daughter’s room, decorated with Cinderella drawings, where she laughed and dreamed. There was my son’s room, with the Spider-Man designs, reflecting his innocence and passion. I didn’t have enough time to truly enjoy it all. It was as if time itself was rushing me towards loss.
On my last visit to the house after our tenth displacement, I found it damaged – cracked walls, crooked doors, windows without any glass. Yet, it still held something unseen; a hidden warmth, memories and hope. That was when I realised that a home is not what a building’s walls contain, but what that place leaves within us. I tried to recreate that feeling in the places we were displaced to, but something was always missing. Nothing resembled the smell of home, the laughter of my children in its corners, or the greetings of neighbours that once began my day.
The news of our home’s complete destruction reached me on the morning of Eid al-Adha 2025, at 9 o’clock. ‘May God compensate you with blessings, your house is gone.’ The news struck like lightning, yet I didn’t feel the pain immediately. I simply said, “Alhamdulillah.” I was like a football player who doesn’t feel an injury until the wound cools.
My real pain began when I returned to my family – the news had already reached them, and I saw the tears in my wife and children’s eyes. Only then did I realise that I hadn’t just lost 4 walls, I had lost a part of my soul. The longing for every detail, even for the sounds of the neighbours, grew stronger. For me, returning home is no longer a question of returning to a place, but to an entire life… one I am still searching for everywhere.
Home is a feeling of being understood
When I think about home, I do not really see a place or a building. It is more of a feeling, like something settling inside me. Home is in the things like how the sunlight hits the same corner of the room every afternoon, the familiar creak of a door, or the smell of food drifting in before I’d even stepped into the kitchen – and stolen some from behind my mother’s back, just to taste it, before she’d yell at me, “lunch is ready, don’t fill your stomach!”
Home is not just where I am, it is a place where I don’t have to think about who I am.
Most of the memories I hold onto are not big or dramatic, they are just little moments. I remember sitting around a table where no one cared that everyone was talking at once. I remember hearing laughter carry from one room to another. Even the silence felt different. It was comfortable, not empty. I remember evenings that stretched out long enough for stories to be told again and again but still feel worth listening to. On their own, those moments do not seem like much. But together, they form something solid.
I have also realised that home is not always tied to a place, sometimes home is people. Home is in the way someone says my name or how they just know my habits, likes and dislikes without asking. Home shows up in meals, nothing fancy, just familiar dishes. One bite of something I have eaten a hundred times can bring back so many memories. Even small traditions matter. They do not have to be big celebrations planned for weeks, just little things that quietly remind me that this is us and this is my home.
The last time I felt at home somewhere nothing big had happened. No emotional reunion, no significant moment. It was just easy – I slipped back into things without thinking. I did not feel like a guest, I did not feel like I had to explain myself. I felt understood, and this is what home comes down to for me, that feeling of being understood.
In the end, home is not really about walls or a specific place, home is about connection. It is about my family members and loved ones. Home is wherever I can be myself, and whomever I can be myself with, without having to explain. It is what I go back to in life, or even just in my mind, when I need to feel like myself again – feel safe again – with all my family members and loved ones gathered together. That is my home.
Home is a place that carries us as much as we carry it
When I hear the word ‘home’, the first things that come to mind are safety, peace and warmth. I imagine the house we worked so hard to turn into exactly what we’d once dreamt of.
It was a simple home, but it was full of us. It had only 3 rooms – a room for my wife and I, a room for our only daughter, and a large room that held the laughter and dreams of our 4 sons. Even the kitchen had a special spirit. It had been designed carefully by my wife and every corner carried her personal touch.
We used to visit our house every Friday while it was still being built, following every small detail step by step and waiting with excitement for it to be ready. Although it was bought through a bank loan over 85 months, what we felt was not the weight of debt, but the joy of a dream turning into reality.
The most beautiful days of our lives were spent in that home. Our children grew up there, in the Tel Al-Hawa neighbourhood of southern Gaza. They made their first friends there and got involved with the nearby kindergartens, schools and playgrounds. We used to walk to the sea together, and it was as if even the road there formed part of our daily happiness. Life around us felt simple and close; our neighbours became like an extended family. We often gathered on our balcony, grilled meat and chicken, laughed and shared our lives – as if we’d never run out of time. Every corner of that house held a memory. We built it step by step, leaving a part of ourselves in every part of it.
But our happiness did not last. Our home was destroyed during a period of conflict, and we lost not only the building itself, but everything inside it: furniture, clothes, appliances, the children’s toys, books and schoolbooks. We lost so many memories at once. It was as if a part of our life suddenly went out.
Today, we live in a rented house, where we’re trying to recreate that feeling of ‘home’, but something always feels missing. I have come to understand that a true home is not just a place we live in, but something that carries us as much as we carry it.
Despite the pain, the memories remain warm in our hearts – a mixture of longing, sorrow, and hope. The house may no longer exist as it once was, but it still lives within us, and the dream it represents remains alive, as if we are waiting for the day we’ll rebuild it again – not only with stones, but with everything we lost.
Home is no longer a place, but an ache within us
When the word ‘home’ is spoken, I do not see a door or a stretch of wall. The picture that forms in my mind instead is something vividly alive, a scene woven from delicate details that the eye might overlook, yet the soul faithfully remembers. It is there that memory quietly recreates itself, time and again.
Home, in the truest sense, is not merely a space we inhabit. It is a small homeland where our dreams reside, where memories endure, untouched by the erosion of time. It is the first scent that greets me before I cross the threshold, the soft light filtering through a window I know by heart, the familiar voice that gently dissolves the estrangement of the passing days.
It is the one place where I owe no explanations, where I don’t need to justify what I feel. It is my mirror to life, in which I exist exactly as I am, without masks or defences. Within it, my memories gather in the simplest of forms – a fleeting laugh, a long conversation on a quiet night. Even a silence that soothes, rather than burdens. It is also where my journey into motherhood first began to take shape.
The beauty of home is that it is not confined to a place. Rather, it is a feeling that travels with us. Sometimes all it takes is a familiar taste to recall my children’s early years, or an old melody that carries me back to my youth, and, for a fleeting moment, I am home again. Yet, the longing persists. Some details cannot be recreated; the warmth of family, the order of things as they once were. Even the small, meaningful chaos we once lived within.
On 30 October, I left my home. I carried nothing but the Qur’an and a few belongings, leaving behind a lifetime suspended within its walls. Since that day, home is no longer a place. It has become an ache that dwells within us, wherever we go.
In the new place where war has forced me to live, I try to cultivate fragments of that feeling. I arrange my belongings with care. I hold tightly to tangible memories. I create small rituals to restore a sense of familiarity. Yet, there remains a part of home that cannot be carried with us, only longed for. And, if one day, dreams reclaim their place in reality, if I return to myself, to the home that once was, it will not merely be a journey from one place to another. It will be a return to a lighter self. A moment of pure belonging, where everything within me gently finds its balance again.
Home is where I began, and the refuge I return to whenever distance grows too heavy. It is a presence that does not vanish, even in absence – a place that lives deeply within me, as I have lived deeply within it. Memory overflows and so does the heart. From the fabric of our daily lives emerges the simple beauty of Palestinian musakhan. It was never just a meal; it was always a story of home and warmth. The scent of bread, the echo of our laughter, the taste of olive oil and olives all carry us back. They reopen the door to the home we all left behind. The rising smoke of onions and sumac feels like a guide, leading us back to moments of safety we once knew. Each bite becomes a memory. The dish becomes a small embrace, one we cling to, trying to conceal the ache of separation.
We tell ourselves that houses can be rebuilt, so long as the taste of home lives within us. But the truth remains: leaving home is unbearably painful. It fractures something deep within, and our hearts continue to carry that wound.
In the end, home transcends walls and geography. It becomes a state of warmth and belonging that lives within us. We may lose our houses and maps may be redrawn, but our true home remains, like a hidden secret within our hearts. And, perhaps, in a rare moment of truth, we come to realise that returning home was never about a place. It was always about finding a way back to ourselves.
These are the stories of Islamic Relief Palestine staff in their own words. Many of our colleagues, like the 4 above, have become displaced since October 2023, and are striving to support communities in need while also rebuilding their own lives. Please help them to continue being a lifeline to vulnerable people in Gaza. Donate to Islamic Relief’s Palestine Emergency Appeal today.
