My Harrowing Escape from Gaza

I’ve lived in the shadow of relentless conflict my whole life. I was born in 1998 and grew up in the Rimal neighbourhood of Gaza City. My family and I often had to evacuate to the homes of friends or relatives to wait out bombing or fighting. When I was seven, a blast violently rocked my school while I was in class. 

My father, a French teacher, and my mother, an English teacher, were deeply committed to our education. Under their guidance, my two younger brothers and I became fluent in both languages. We dreamed of moving to Canada, known for its welcoming attitude toward Muslim immigrants. I saw education as my way out, so I pursued biotechnology at the Islamic University of Gaza. Then, in 2021, I met a Canadian during a visit to Egypt. We got married and, in early 2023, moved to Montreal. I gained permanent residency. But the marriage didn’t last, and I returned to Gaza later that year to visit my family.

On the morning of October 7, 2023, I had plans to walk by the sea with my cousin and closest friend, Oola. Our walk never happened. At around 6:20 a.m., I heard rockets firing. We soon learned that Hamas had launched a major attack on Israel, killing nearly 1,200 people. Within 24 hours, the Israeli army had retaliated. Five days later, the conflict reached our street. My family and I fled our home with only our identification and some clothes, believing we’d return in a few months. As the fighting escalated, we moved from one temporary refuge to another, staying with relatives or friends because Gaza has no bomb shelters. 

I kept messaging with Oola, who was hiding with her husband and two young kids. We hoped it would soon be safe to reunite. But I never saw her again. In late October, I heard news of heavy bombing near her home. My messages to her went unanswered. After five agonizing days, I accepted that she and her family were dead. In the coming days, news of other friends and relatives killed in bombings reached me. I was too busy trying to survive to fully process my grief.

By mid-November, the Israeli army had ordered civilians in northern Gaza to evacuate, so my family and I travelled to Deir al Balah, in the centre of the Gaza Strip. One afternoon, during our journey, I saw soldiers randomly strip-searching people on the streets. We were terrified and decided we had to leave Gaza. Since I had Canadian permanent residency, I got on a list of people approved to leave for Egypt through the Rafah border. As the bombing drew closer, my father urged me to go. Saying goodbye to my family was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I feared I might never see them again—that one day they’d stop responding to my messages, just like Oola had. As I crossed the border alone, I wept for the life I was leaving behind.

In Cairo, I searched for ways to bring my family to safety. Then, in late December, Canada announced it would offer up to 1,000 temporary resident visas for Gazan relatives of Canadians and permanent residents. My goal was to get my family on that list. As soon as the application portal opened, I submitted their paperwork, including security checks, social media accounts and passport records dating back to our infancies.

Weeks passed with no word. I decided to return to Canada, where I could advocate for my family in person. In February, I flew to Quebec and, with the help of a family friend, found a place to stay in Sherbrooke. I began preparing for my master’s degree in biology at the University of Sherbrooke, with plans to begin this fall. I still haven’t processed much of my trauma; I find myself checking my phone for messages from Oola, knowing she will never respond. 

Six weeks after I arrived, my cousin in Cairo used my family’s savings to pay an agency US$7,000 per person to bring my parents and brothers to Egypt. I was relieved to know they were finally safe. But Egypt is only a temporary solution. My focus now is on reuniting with my family in Canada. They are still waiting for their visas, more than seven months later, but I refuse to give up. I hold on to hope that, one day, we will build a new life together, free from fear and uncertainty.

—As told to Ali Amad

This story appears in the October issue of Maclean’s. You can buy the issue here, subscribe to the magazine here or send a gift subscription here.