“We escape death, but we never reach life.”
Only a few days had passed since the Thabet family returned to what remained of their home in the Mouraj area, north of Rafah. It had been a seven-month journey of displacement after displacement — and then just as quickly, a new warning came from the Israeli army, ordering them to leave the area immediately.
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An exhausted family had returned to the rubble of their home with a glimmer of hope, hoping to start anew. But the return of war meant they’d be uprooted again.
The family hesitated for a while to leave, despite understanding the mortal risks of staying. They had become all too familiar with the misery and harsh living conditions of life in a displacement tent.
The family spent more than ten hours torn between remaining under the threat of bombing or venturing into the unknown.
As night fell and the intensity of artillery and aerial bombardment increased, there were no tents left for them — so the family left with only what they could carry on their shoulders — this time, heading toward the Al-Mawasi area of Khan Younis, about 18 kilometers from their home.
They walked and walked, under the sounds of explosions, leaving behind whatever possessions and memories remained.
The family, like countless others on the path of displacement, cursed the occupation and those who had driven them to this fate.
Leaflets and panic
Forced displacement policies are among the most devastating tools of the Israeli war. The bombing and destruction, and threats of more, is not only meant to kill, but to push civilians into a life that bears no resemblance to life.
Displacement does not mean survival.
The Israeli army deliberately issues repeated warnings — whether through leaflets dropped from planes or digital statements on social media — calling on residents to “move to safe areas,” while experience has shown that these areas are often later targeted by airstrikes.
Leaflets fall on rooftops, panic seeps into hearts and neighbors ask one another, “Should we leave? Are you evacuating?” Some initially refuse to leave, as the Thabet family did, while others flee immediately in constant fear of death.
But deep down, they all know: displacement does not mean survival.
In the Al-Mawasi area, where thousands of displaced families are crammed together, the Thabet family found only a tattered piece of cloth, which they pitched as a tent — offering no protection from the summer heat or the winter cold.
Unending hell
The family lies on the ground, covering themselves with the sky, in a place devoid of all necessities of life: no electricity, no water, no sanitation and no privacy.
Umm Ahmed Thabet, the 40-something mother, says in a hushed voice with tears welling in her eyes, “We escape death, but we never reach life. Tents are not a shelter, but a prison without walls. It’s an unending hell.”
With each displacement, the family loses something new.
Her children no longer remember anything about their former childhood — not their rooms, nor their toys, nor the warmth of home.
And with each displacement, the family loses something new: a piece of furniture, a hanging photo, or even a fleeting memory they never got the chance to say goodbye to.
Often, the family does not return to find what they left behind — the homes become vulnerable to looting, either by thieves exploiting the absence, or by Israeli soldiers taking whatever civilian belongings they please.
