The cost of leaving Gaza is a price paid in many ways

It was the last time. I stood there, looking at Gaza for what would be the last time in my life. It was beautiful and radiant, like a freshly picked cherry.

I remembered the courtyard of my house, my mother’s tears, the Abu Hameed roundabout, my friends—one by one—their smiling faces etched in my mind, the love, the despair, and the long wait before the final escape.

I remembered the courtyard of my house, my mother’s tears, the Abu Hameed roundabout, my friends—one by one—their smiling faces etched in my mind, the love, the despair, and the long wait before the final escape.

I knew it was the last look, the final glimpse I would remember for the rest of my life, something I would one day tell my children about. It wasn’t my heart that told me this, but the long days spent waiting for my name to appear on the travelers' list and the endless hours in the Egyptian hall waiting for the entry stamp into the world.

After five minutes of contemplation, accompanied by a cigarette, I sighed, recalling everything that had happened before reaching this crucial point separating two parallel worlds.

Did I regret leaving or not? I didn’t know, and I’ll never know. I picked up my small bag and turned away, putting Gaza behind me. But if I had known then that I would spend the rest of my life looking back, I would never have turned away from Gaza at all.

Did I regret leaving or not? I didn’t know, and I’ll never know. I picked up my small bag and turned away, putting Gaza behind me.

If I had known then that I would spend the rest of my life looking back, I would never have turned away from Gaza at all.

‘A Parallel Time’

As noted by the martyred prisoner Walid Daqqa in prison, there are two timelines that run parallel* and intersect at the time of visitation. I always saw the Rafah Crossing as a dividing line separating two different timelines as well.

I stood there, looking at Gaza for what would be the last time in my life. It was beautiful and radiant. I knew I would remember this final glimpse for the rest of my life, something I would one day tell my children about. It wasn’t my heart that told me this, but the long days spent waiting for my name to appear on the travelers' list and the endless hours waiting for an entry stamp into the world.

Although life in Gaza appears entirely normal, just like any other life, it never really was. After exiting the gate of the crossing, people like us realize they had been in a different world—a place with no past, present, or future.

So, as soon as I stepped out of the gate, I felt as if I had been transported to another time, entirely unlike the one in Gaza. It is like the soul being liberated after a long captivity.

When I saw the tears of mothers as they bid their children farewell in the outer courtyard of the crossing, I wasn’t surprised. When I saw Gazans carrying electric pots, boxes of Ras El Abed, and clay yogurt pots, I understood that they were saying goodbye to Gaza in their own way. It was as if they were saying, “We love you dearly, but we will never return. Leaving you wasn’t easy, and coming back to you is a cost we cannot afford to pay.”

The cost of leaving

I can say that I paid the full price of leaving Gaza, which is why I haven’t returned. Those who didn’t pay the full price have gone back, but had they realized they would pay double, they might never have returned.

When I saw the tears of mothers as they bid their children farewell in the outer courtyard of the crossing, I wasn’t surprised. When I saw Gazans carrying electric pots, boxes of Ras El Abed, and clay yogurt pots, I understood that they were saying goodbye to Gaza in their own way. It was as if they were saying, “We love you dearly, but we will never return. Leaving you wasn’t easy, and coming back to you is a cost we cannot afford to pay.”

The cost of leaving isn’t just financial; it includes many memories, streets, late-night conversations, and friends. So, when I handed over 76 shekels ($20) as the exit fee at the Palestinian hall, I knew I was also paying another price.

It wasn’t just the coordination fee that I had barely managed to gather and pay before reaching the crossing. There was another, more intangible cost—something I had spent a lifetime creating and had to relinquish forever at that moment. And I did.

This cost varies from one Gazan to another. For some, it’s the long yearning for one’s mother; for others, it’s leaving behind a part of their heart—their beloved partner after years of shared hopes and dreams. In some cases, it’s the fear and anguish over one’s wife and children.

What I do know, and what every Gazan knows, is that the cost of leaving isn’t just financial; it includes many memories, streets, late-night conversations, and friends. So when I handed over the exit fee I had barely managed to gather, I knew I was also paying another, more intangible price—something I had spent a lifetime creating and had to relinquish forever at that moment.

Therefore, I know, and every other Gazan knows, that leaving through the Rafah Crossing requires more than just money. It requires the strength to endure the "loss" you are forced to accept.

Leaving is not the same as returning, and for those who live in the parallel time outside Gaza, it becomes exceedingly difficult to return to a time outside of the time the rest of the world lives in.

The gateway to life

"Gaza is the basement of the world." This sentence never left my mind during the entire journey from the Rafah Crossing to Cairo Airport. I kept repeating it, like a professional in a circus performing his movements as if on autopilot.

With every scene I saw—a beautiful building, a laughing child, a wide street—I would remember an old basement inhabited by ancient people.

This cost varies from one Gazan to another. For some, it’s the long yearning for one’s mother; for others, it’s leaving behind a part of their heart—their beloved partner after years of shared hopes and dreams. In many cases, it’s the fear and anguish over one’s wife and children.

The Rafah crossing is the gateway that separates the basement from the surface, and death from life. After crossing it, I realized I had escaped certain death from planes, artillery, rockets, and stray bullets. But does everyone who escapes death find life waiting for them? I don’t know.

But the young people of Gaza who fled to the sea to seek refuge in Europe, and then drowned or disappeared, they know. And those who couldn’t endure the harshness of life abroad and returned, they know.

And those who didn’t have enough money to cross the Rafah gate, they know. The mothers who waited at the doorsteps of their homes for their sons who never returned, they know too.

Every Gazan understands deep down that the Rafah Crossing isn’t just a gate for leaving and returning. They understand it is a gateway between life and death, where one who enters this beautiful, sad piece of land is forever lost, and the one who exits is born for the first time. 

As a result, every Gazan understands deep down that the Rafah Crossing isn’t just a gate for leaving and returning. They understand it is a gateway between life and death, where one who enters this beautiful, sad piece of land is forever lost, and the one who exits is born for the first time.

The first time

I arrived at Cairo Airport after a nine-hour journey. There, I had to navigate a new world that I knew nothing about, a world I had only seen in movies and TV shows or heard about during the summer visits of relatives.

Like any Gazan lucky enough to travel for the first time at the age of 26, I was nervous, scared, and awed by the sound of the PA system announcing: "Passengers on flight number... please proceed to gate number... for boarding."

The Rafah crossing is the gateway that separates the basement from the surface, and death from life. After crossing it, I realized I had escaped certain death from planes, artillery, rockets, and stray bullets. But does everyone who escapes death find life waiting for them? I don’t know.

It was the first time in my life I had heard such an announcement, and it quickly took me back… to the very first time I had looked back.

If I could hang a sign over the Rafah Crossing, it would simply read: "The First Time." While Gazans experience many firsts within their own land, the Rafah Crossing is the gateway to countless first experiences that cannot be had in Gaza.

Through it, Gazans experience the feeling of traveling for the first time, and after crossing it, they know what it’s like to be in a car for more than an hour at a stretch. Through it, they can see the world and meet people from other nationalities for the first time. Only through it do they truly feel free for the first time after years confined to a 365 square kilometer piece of land. There, they can travel through an airport and talk about topics unrelated to wars and conflicts.

I don’t know how I sensed it, but it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t return because I would not be able to, not because I did not want to.

They can climb a mountain, ride a wave, sleep in a forest, attend a concert, go to a movie theater, or take a photo with a celebrity… so many things they can do for the first time, but they are things they can no longer do today.

The last time

I don’t know how I realized that day that it would be the last time. So I took in everything I could; Starting from the asphalt that led to the Rafah Crossing Gate, through the outer hall with its unremarkable appearance that doesn’t suggest a transition to another world, to the well-arranged Palestinian hall that offers travelers a glimpse of hope.

I don’t know how I sensed it, but it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t return because I would not be able to, not because I did not want to.

There is no longer a meeting point between Gaza and the world. Ever since Israel occupied the Rafah Crossing, burning and destroying it, Palestinians lost their only window to the world. Despite all of this, I still believe I will return, perhaps as a young man, a father, or even a grandfather, because it doesn't make sense for me to die while still looking back.

There is no longer a meeting point between Gaza and the world. Ever since Israel occupied the Rafah Crossing, burning and destroying it, Palestinians lost their only window to the world.

Despite all of this, I still believe I will return, perhaps as a young man, a father, or even a grandfather, because it doesn't make sense for me to die while still looking back.

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22

*On the anniversary of his twentieth year in prison, imprisoned novelist Walid Daqqa wrote his famous 2005 letter, “Parallel Time.”

He spoke of a parallel timeline he existed in: “I write to you from Parallel Time. Here, where space is constant and place is still, we only use your normal time measurement units (like minutes and hours) when our temporal lines meet in the prison visitation room… We exist in Parallel Time, where we see you but you don't see us, where we hear you but you don't hear us.”

He ends the letter by noting that love is his modest and only victory against his jailer.