I left Gaza, but my body is trapped in the horrors of war

I left Gaza on 19 February 2024, but sometimes, it feels as though I am still trapped there. While I physically survived the war, its ghosts still haunt me through the memories spurred by certain sights and sounds, and in how my body involuntarily reacts. In Egypt today, the call to prayer, which is supposed to bring peace to my soul, leaves me tense and terrified. My heart races and I struggle to breathe, fearing that death is imminent. In October 2023, I was sitting with my family watching the news as the adhan from a nearby mosque minaret filled the air. Suddenly, I felt my body being thrown violently, as I choked on the smell of gunpowder. An intense Israeli bombardment had struck our neighbour’s house. A large piece of stone shattered the window a few centimetres from me. I gasped out the words of the shahada, believing I was about to die. New MEE newsletter: Jerusalem Dispatch Sign up to get the latest insights and analysis on Israel-Palestine, alongside Turkey Unpacked and other MEE newsletters To this day, every time the call to prayer reaches my ears, it takes me back to that moment. The war also triggered my fear of airplanes. When a plane flies over the skies of Egypt, I do not imagine an ordinary aircraft carrying passengers, but rather a fighter jet carrying missiles that could fall on us at any moment. Permanent damage These are not the only things that affect me. On one hand, I can still see the scars left by stitches around my middle finger, which looks different from the others; the nail no longer grows normally. It happened after we were displaced to my grandmother’s house in Deir al-Balah, amid repeated attacks on our own neighbourhood. Her house was crowded with other displaced people, and I was sitting in the dark one day when a missile exploded nearby. I feared that my younger brother, who could hear with only one ear, would lose his hearing in the other one from the force of the explosion - so I rushed towards him after hearing him cry, and told him to go to my mother. War on Gaza: Our memories of home will never die Read More » That was when another displaced child in the room, surely terrified by all that was happening around us, slammed the door in front of me, catching my finger between the door and its frame. The force severed the tip of my finger, tearing off my nail. At Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital, my finger was stitched without anesthesia, as I cried from the severe pain. The wound healed, but the injury brought a new phobia: a fear of doors. Today, when I see someone place their hands near the side of a doorframe, my heart tightens and I grow tense. Beyond my memory and senses, the war took over part of my body, too. Sometimes, all it takes is for me to sit down to feel it. I was diagnosed with chronic inflammation in my tailbone as a result of sitting for long periods on a hard surface. The conditions of displacement forced me to sit on the floor all the time. I felt terrible pain, but hoped it was temporary and would disappear with time, planning to make an appointment with a specialist when the war ended. Instead, the pain became a permanent companion. One doctor in Egypt told me there was no option but to undergo surgery to remove the coccyx, which would itself have serious consequences - so I’ve learned to live with the pain. People say that time heals everything, but three years on, I have come to realise that the body has a memory that cannot be erased. It will continue to respond to certain sounds and scenes as though danger is still present. How can I say that I survived the war, when my body is still trapped in its horrors to this day? The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye. Copyright © 2014 - 2026 . Middle East Eye. All rights reserved. Only England and Wales jurisdiction apply in all legal matters. Middle East Eye ISSN 2634-2456