Nine months before October 7, I began learning photography under the guidance of my friend Mahmoud Abu Salama. Mahmoud has a Canon camera, something I have always wanted. When he didn't need it, he let me use it, which was like receiving a precious gift.
I loved capturing moments, but being a perfectionist, I hesitated to use a camera until I felt skilled enough. I started watching videos online on how to take great photos and learned that symmetry enhances beauty. Every time I saw something symmetrical, I felt an irresistible urge to photograph it.
Mahmoud couldn't always lend me his Canon and I didn't have the money to buy my own, so I decided to buy a Lumix as a temporary solution until I could afford a more expensive camera. With my new Lumix I discovered that spiral patterns attract people's attention. Just a month after starting my photography journey, I received an Erasmus scholarship to study for a semester in Spain as a cultural exchange student from the English literature department at my university, Al-Aqsa.
I traveled to Jaén on January 27, 2023. There I learned that incorporating a human element makes photos more compelling and that the best photos tell a story.
In Spain I lost my Lumix, which made me feel frustrated. I think I left it somewhere and when I came back to get it, it had been stolen. The camera had many memories that connected me to Gaza. However, I realized that while cameras can preserve some moments, we still carry the most important memories within us. For me, those are the memories of my beloved home, Gaza.
In August 2023 I returned home. By then, he had already built a solid network of contacts. Many recognized my work with NGOs, which made job opportunities more accessible despite my not-so-high qualifications, affected by the challenges of the pandemic and the unexpected separation of my parents.
I had become financially stable and had gotten a freelance job that allowed me to pay for my education and support my family. My mother, burdened by debt, was relieved when I was able to help her. Our relationship had improved slightly and I was proud of my achievements.
Everything seemed to be falling into place and I was ready to buy my Canon camera and a guitar, and I was finally able to enjoy my passions.
I wanted to relive my meaningful past, capturing every feeling that my photography had overlooked, from my passion for school and proving my intelligence, to my ambitions and intellectual pursuits.
I longed to become wiser, kinder, and more thoughtful. I wanted to process the sadness and anger caused by the systematically created poverty we face in Gaza; the injustices we have witnessed since Palestine was occupied; and the world's great betrayal of our human rights and its denial of our existence. All of this has been accumulating over the years, from childhood to 20, and I want to make my dreams of traveling freely without facing obstacles come true.
On October 7th I was supposed to start my last year of university. I was eager to fully commit to my studies, but instead, I woke up to the sounds of bombing. The internet was intermittent, but I received messages from my school announcing a pause in classes due to the attack on Gaza. My life turned upside down, going from excitement and ambition to sadness, worry and fear.
I went from being a passionate student to someone who documented injustices and human rights violations against my people. I was shocked by the world's double standards and the media's misrepresentation of Palestinians. Despite limited Internet access, I wrote articles and presented them to the media whenever possible.
Life in Gaza before the war was already difficult. We struggle with contaminated water, limited electricity and restricted travel. After October 7, these struggles intensified. Water became scarce, electricity was completely cut off, and trips required large sums of money that offered no guarantee of exit. We lived in constant fear, under bombardments and without a safe place to go.
Most of the places I knew and loved were completely destroyed, including my house. If I had known this would be the fate of Gaza, I would have taken more photographs, capturing every moment. I would have said goodbye to every beautiful place I experienced in Gaza.
The schools where I graduated and earned awards for being at the top of my class, the places where I built the strongest friendships and laughed the most, and the places where I felt most at home, all disappeared. My heart aches with the memories of what once was and the harsh reality of what remains.
I couldn't capture the boredom that came over us when the television went silent after a blackout; the closeness we enjoyed when we chatted without being distracted by the Internet; the joy the children felt when the lights came back on after a blackout; the relief the mothers felt, as the clean clothes fluttered in the breeze; the delight one would get from a sweet nap after a long day at college.
I could not preserve the moments of anger towards our governments for the division they have maintained since 2007, the consequences that followed and the unclear vision of our future. I could not grasp the contempt for those who spoiled our beautiful land, killed, fired, tortured, handcuffed, blindfolded or detained my people, nor the dark nights studying by the light of candles that burned the hair on my forehead, which took in healing. The fervent pride we felt when we named the Palestinian villages and towns we lost in 1948, the deep-rooted connection we have with a land that dates back to ancient times, and the tears that welled up as we remembered the defeats of our ancestors, all of these Memories live within us.
These are all things my camera couldn't capture but my heart could.
I'm lucky to have escaped Gaza. On March 3, I left after a successful fundraising campaign, thanks to the support of kind people and connections made through my work as an Arabic teacher and as a freelancer.
My mother and some siblings are safe in Cairo, but my father stayed in Gaza with my other siblings. This left my heart broken: part of it is in Gaza with my father, other brothers and friends; another is in Cairo; and another is with my sister in Algeria, where she is a university student with an international law scholarship. There is also a part of my heart that died when I left Gaza.
My mother, my brothers and I now face difficulties in Egypt and the pain of uncertainty: What will happen if a ceasefire is announced? Will we return to Gaza or will we be forced to stay in Egypt? Both options are equally terrifying to us.
My heart is so overwhelmed that no therapy can help me heal. I can only begin to heal when my camera can capture civilian planes in our sky, not Israeli fighter planes. I will be healed when I can safely travel the world and proudly say that I am Palestinian, when I can pass through Palestinian airports, when my identity is never questioned, and when I am no longer called a refugee. Only then will I be sure that my people will no longer witness injustice and that the world has apologized and stepped forward for us. Then our suffering in Palestine will end.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.
