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

It was both a refuge and a prison—its regular rhythms were comforting yet repetitive, its streets too familiar, its horizons too narrow for my heart’s desires. I cherished its warmth and intimacy, but the pull of life outside of it was irresistible. When the opportunity comes, I’m ready to leave.

This year, I did embark on a journey, but not the journey I dreamed of. Instead of a carefree exploratory trip abroad, I found myself living through a genocidal war and fighting for survival in the narrow sliver of Palestinian land I called home. I’ve learned a lot along the way – about myself and my inner world.

The “journey” begins in January. While most people welcomed the New Year under a sky filled with fireworks, song, and joy, my sky issued an evacuation order. Crumpled pieces of paper fell upon us with a message written in Arabic: “Nuserat camp is too dangerous. For your safety, please move south.”

I never thought leaving home would be so difficult. I’ve always considered myself someone who doesn’t have strong ties to my hometown. But I was wrong. Leaving felt like giving up a part of my soul.

My family and I traveled to Rafah to stay with my aunt, who welcomed us warmly. Even though I felt some comfort there, in my mind 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 Nuserat, and we hurried back home. Finding my home still intact was one of the best moments during the war and indeed in my life. Its front door was broken in, our belongings were stolen, and bomb debris from a neighbor’s house fell inside. But it still stands.

Despite the destruction that surrounded us, the ruins near us still felt warmer than any safe place anywhere else in the world. As the grandson of refugees, for the first time in my life I felt like I belonged somewhere. My soul, my identity—they all belong here.

The joy of returning home was quickly overshadowed by the reality of war. March is here, ushering in the holy month. For Muslims, Ramadan is a time of spiritual peace, prayer and togetherness. But this year, it’s been filled with loss, separation and deprivation. There were no communal meals or family gatherings, no mosques to pray in – just ruins.

Instead of experiencing peace, we experienced relentless bombing and terror. Bombs dropped without warning, each blast shattering any sense of security we might have had. We are being punished for an unknown crime and are treated as “human animals” as their defense minister puts it.

In April, Eid al-Fitr has come and gone, robbed of the joy that this cherished Muslim holiday brings. There was no laughter of children waking us up in the morning, no busy preparations or decorations to welcome guests. Death is the only visitor in Palestinian homes in Gaza.

Then May came and with it came the opportunity I had been waiting for my entire life. My family managed to raise enough money to pay an Egyptian company to help me leave Gaza. This process is full of uncertainties. There were rumors of scams, bribes and rejections.

The idea of ​​escaping the unrelenting horror around you is intoxicating. I want freedom, but it comes at a price. I was leaving my entire family and my home and felt uncertain about the prospect of returning.

To an outsider, it may seem like a simple choice: follow your dreams, take a chance, and get out! But for me, it was never easy.

Late one afternoon, as my sister Aya and I sat on a rooftop, the sky filled with spy planes, I realized the true weight of my decision. Aya, who is only 15 years old, is full of energy and hope, with ambition shining in her light brown eyes. “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 could I leave her and my family in the middle of a war? Did I deserve a better life while Aya stayed behind, struggling to eat, sleep, and dream? How could I live my life anywhere else, knowing that my sister was facing her nightmare alone? How could I give up the land that made me who I am?

In that moment, I realized that if I gave up on Gaza now, if I saw it as a piece of rubble and ruins, my soul would never be free. I realized that my identity was tied to this place, this struggle.

When I first told my family I wanted to stay, they refused to accept it. They feared for my safety and insisted that I leave in order to survive. After a long back-and-forth, they eventually respected my decision, but their fears never completely went away.

A few days later, Israeli troops occupied the Rafah crossing and cut off communication with the outside world. I don’t regret my decision.

As Israeli forces continue to attack civilian areas across Gaza, displacing hundreds of thousands of people, it is now our turn to host relatives. Rather than seeing them as displaced people, we see them as our family. It is our responsibility to share with each other and stand together in times of need. By fall, there were 30 people in our family.

This summer we began to feel the growing impact of restrictions not just on humanitarian aid but on all remunerative goods. Basic food items disappeared from the market. Aid organizations are having trouble distributing food.

It became increasingly clear that those who survived the blast would face a different, slow death from starvation. Food rationing became so strict that survival became a cutthroat competition. Life is more like a jungle, and only the strongest can survive.

In autumn, it was stormy and hungry. We see people forced to live in tents and suffer.

In November, a family accident occurred. My eight-year-old cousin, Ahmad, who was like my brother, fell from the third floor of our building and suffered a cerebral haemorrhage. The thought of losing him was too much to bear.

We took him to Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, which was overcrowded with airstrike casualties and lacked the necessary equipment to perform brain scans. We tried to go to two nearby hospitals and were told they couldn’t do anything for him either. As night fell we managed to find a medical center that could help him, but it was far away. Getting him into an ambulance after dark was a huge risk – the car could be targeted by a drone, like so many. It’s a choice between two deaths.

We decided to have hope and put Ahmed in the ambulance. Even in the darkest days, miracles happen. Ahmed arrived safely, underwent necessary surgery and survived. He began to recover, although he still needed physical therapy that he couldn’t get in Gaza.

December came as we worried and cared about Ahmed. Soon we heard unexpected news from Syria: the fall of a brutal regime there. I feel extremely happy.

In Gaza, we have long stood with the Syrian people. We understand the pain of war and oppression, and we are sincerely happy to see the Syrian people finally free. Their liberation allowed us to see justice being done for the first time and gave us hope. It reminds us that one day we too may experience this relief in a liberated homeland where we no longer fear for our lives.

At the end of the year, we paid close attention to the news of ceasefire negotiations, but as 2024 is coming to an end, we Palestinians have not been able to breathe a sigh of relief.

This year’s journey left a deep mark on me: the white strands in my black hair, my frail body, ill-fitting clothes, dark circles under my eyes, and tired and dull eyes. But it wasn’t just my appearance that changed. This year has burned my soul like wildfire.

But even ashes contain seeds. I felt something new emerge within me – a determination to stay, to persevere, to change, to withstand all attempts to erase my memory, my identity, my people.

The death and destruction were overwhelming, but they didn’t bring me down. If anything, deep down I yearn to live in Gaza, in Palestine, for many more years. I feel we have a responsibility to the martyrs to resist, to stay on this land, to rebuild and to live. The heavy responsibility of restoring the motherland falls on our shoulders.

I am no longer the person who once dreamed of leaving Gaza and living an easy life in a faraway place. I will stay in my homeland and I will continue to believe that peace, no matter how fragile, will one day return to Gaza. I will continue to dream that the Palestinian people will finally be free.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.