Physically in Egypt, mentally in Gaza: A mother's escape from hell

After nearly five months of anxious and desperate wait, the moment finally arrived in late January: the opportunity to leave Gaza and escape Israel’s brutal war on our besieged enclave.

Much to the relief of me and my husband, a fellow displaced Palestinian who had shared our shelter in Rafah revealed that my name had finally appeared on the evacuation list set for January 26.

I am an Egyptian national, my husband is not.

“Prepare yourself, you must be at the Rafah crossing tomorrow morning at 7,” Ibrahim Abu Shaaban said with a smile.

He knew I had waited too long to join my children, who had managed to move out and reach Egypt in December with my elder sister.

By January, the situation had become even more dangerous in Gaza as Israel pushed on its military campaign on the helpless civilians, killing and maiming Palestinians by the thousands.

The reality of my imminent departure only truly sank in when my son Khaled managed to reach me over the phone from Egypt after numerous failed attempts.

However, I was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions of joy and sorrow – though elated at the prospect of leaving, I grappled with the sorrow of realising that my husband's name was absent from the departure list.

With a heavy heart, I had to leave him behind in Rafah, determined to find a way for our family to be reunited once more.

But I was also wary of the fact that I might not be able to be in touch with him as frequently as I wished.

Since the start of Israel’s war on October 7, Israeli air strikes inflicted substantial damage on telecommunications facilities in Gaza City early in the offensive, resulting in prolonged outages.

Palestinians in Gaza have continued to experience unreliable internet and mobile telephony.

But leaving without my husband, Ahed, wasn't an easy choice; it tore at my heart and left me conflicted.

Throughout the night, I wrestled with my decision, almost opting to stay by his side. Despite my concerns for my children, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving Ahed to face the uncertainty alone in Gaza.

The city of Rafah, purportedly designated as a safe area for civilians by the Israeli army, was under the constant threat of expansion of military operations.

“Don’t think twice, I'm so happy for you and for the kids, I will be safe, don’t worry,” Ahed said to me.

We hugged, and I couldn’t hold my tears though. It was late in the night night. I packed my bag and slept a few hours before waking up at 5 am.

It was very difficult to find a cab to drive me to the Rafah Border crossing due to a shortage of fuel.

Our neighbour, who owned a car, offered to drive us there in return for 250 Israeli Shekel ($68).

As we set out, I gazed out towards the sea and the people around me. My heart was heavy as I realised that I might not be able to return to Gaza anytime soon as there were no signs of the war ending soon.

As I bid farewell to the familiar sights of the sea and the streets, my gaze lingered on the ubiquitous tents and the bustling crowds. It was a poignant moment, marking my final goodbye to the sorrowful landscape of Gaza.

Upon reaching the Rafah Crossing, I was struck by the crowds of people gathered there, a poignant reminder of the mass exodus spurred by the atrocities and violence ravaging our homeland.

"It seems that all Gazans are leaving," I told myself. For a moment, I thought it wasn't a good sign, but at the same time, it makes absolute sense to run away from an ongoing massacre.

Near the crossing, some people had erected tents, while many others dozed off on their seats, eagerly awaiting their names to be called on any departure list.

As I observed my surroundings with the keen eye of a journalist, every detail seemed to surprise me; the crossing resembled more of a makeshift shelter camp than a typical border checkpoint.

My anticipation grew until I finally heard my name being called by a worker at the crossing. Overwhelmed with emotion, I embraced my husband tightly before entering the departure hall.

I asked Ahed to wait for an hour, hoping that I might be able to speak with an officer inside the hall to let him in with me, but the officer refused.

“No name on the list, no exit for him…and don’t waste my time.”

I proceeded with a heavy heart. Once my passport was stamped, I boarded a bus bound for the Egyptian side of the Rafah Crossing.

Each traveller underwent a thorough security check, with Egyptian officers scrutinising departure stamps and names while conducting security screenings and filming passengers with video cameras—a procedure I found unfamiliar but necessary for this journey to Egypt.

Upon reaching the Egyptian side, we waited inside the bus for about an hour before being instructed to disembark. A representative from a Cairo-based travel agency escorted us to a waiting hall.

I had to save $650 to be able to depart Gaza, that was the only legal way amid all the frauds we heard about by illegal coordinators who asked for thousands of dollars to get someone out of Gaza.

The road trip from Sinai to Cairo was fast and easy. I arrived in Cairo at 8 pm local time, I stayed at a small hotel for one night.

In the morning, my kids, who were staying at a relative’s house, came over to the hotel. I couldn’t believe it when I saw Khaled and Omar again. We hugged, cried and laughed at the same time.

Upon arriving at the hotel, I eagerly took a shower—my first proper bath in five months. The presence of a functioning shower, access to running water, and availability of light and internet within my room felt almost surreal. I no longer needed to trek 2,000 metres daily to the tent camp in the rain just to ensure the children's well-being; everything I needed was now conveniently at hand.

But I was thinking about Ahed.

I still remember the hardships we endured together since the war began in Gaza – displaced multiple times, from Gaza City to Khan Younis and finally to Rafah.

Our struggles to secure water, the infrequent showers, the reliance on battery torches due to frequent power cuts, and the exorbitant prices of food items are etched in my memory. Life during wartime is undeniably challenging, but in Gaza, it's nothing short of horrific and harrowing.

The morning after I arrived in Cairo, I visited the headquarters of the travel and tourism company that helped me get out of Gaza.

As an Egyptian, I had to pay $650. For non-Egyptians, the price was $1500. I had to get my husband out, but we could not afford it yet. My goal was to save money and bring my husband back to our family.

However, that morning, I was dismayed to find out that they had increased the fees for Palestinians, making it unaffordable for me at $5000.

Disheartened, I left in tears, feeling frustrated and uncertain about the future. I cling to hope, praying for my husband's safety and our eventual reunion.

I'm physically in Egypt but mentally trapped in Gaza. My thoughts are consumed by my husband and our home in Gaza City - I wonder if it's still standing amidst the devastation wrought by Israeli forces.

My heart aches for a ceasefire that seems elusive, for the lives lost, the wounded, the missing, and the innocent civilians enduring unimaginable suffering, particularly the women and children.

I contemplate the future of Gaza and the uncertain fate of my family. As a journalist, I've written numerous reports on this war, but the only story I dream of writing is one with the headline "Ceasefire takes effect in Gaza”.