In Gaza, death seems easier than the endless suffering of displacement. Death ends pain; displacement only makes it worse, opening a wound that never heals.

In Gaza City, people face two bitter choices: stay and risk being killed or imprisoned, or flee southward to an impossible life in a camp. Displacement is not simply a relocation—it is a slow death. It is embarking on a journey not knowing whether there will be shelter, food, or water at the end. It means exhaustion, homelessness, and fear. Even reaching a shelter offers no real safety because death can still follow you there.

Since the start of the war, my family and I have been displaced 15 times. Each time has been harder than the one before. Every time, we have lost our possessions, our health, our sense of security.

It all star

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