I managed to escape Gaza, but now carry the shame of being safe

One year ago, my days in Gaza were defined by fear and the constant question of how to stay alive. Today, I sleep and wake in Italy in a state of peace, after months of falling asleep under bombs and waking to the sound of air strikes.

I am safe here in my own body while my family remains in Gaza, facing one of the most uncertain futures in the world.

Last year, my days moved between crying and praying. I still carry the sadness in my heart, an ache embedded deeply within me from an injury that cannot heal while it continues to be inflicted.

I wept through the immense suffering we endured as Israeli tanks moved closer and closer to my home. Hope and loss can live side by side. I learned this during those months when survival meant holding on to both at once.

Death was all around me. Darkness and pain filled my mind and soul. My family and I survived countless horrors together.

For four months, I lived inside Gaza's hospitals caring for my beloved mother after she was injured, carrying responsibilities that weighed heavily on both my shoulders and my heart.

I survived two years of war, starvation, air strikes and the depression that came with them, holding on to hope despite everything.

Leaving Gaza to pursue the education I dreamed of meant leaving behind the people I love most.

That is the price of my survival.

Holding on to hope

My mind was pulled in two directions: how to survive each day, and how to hold on to the dream of earning a scholarship that could take me back to myself.

Hearing the words 'See you soon in Italy' felt unreal... too good to be true for a Palestinian who has known nothing but disappointment

"Everything in life is temporary. Better days are coming," Brazilian journalist Giovanna Vial told me when I was displaced and living in a tent after we were evacuated from our home in Gaza City.

Those words became my reason to keep going through every circumstance.

During the two years of war, my family and I moved through different phases of survival. My mother's injury was by far the most difficult. Yet I tried to keep my spirits high. I kept believing there was light at the end of everything.

My determination also brought on significant pressure. Day and night, I searched online for scholarships for Palestinians.

I applied for dozens of opportunities. I applied even when the borders were closed. I applied with the belief that nothing is impossible, no matter when or where you are.

After countless attempts, I was granted a scholarship through the Italian Universities for Palestinian Students (IUPALS) initiative.

I received the news while I was still living in a tent. Hearing the words "See you soon in Italy" felt unreal, as if it were a joke or a false hope - too good to be true for a Palestinian who has known nothing but disappointment.

Leaving Gaza

I waited an entire month for my evacuation date.

"I am afraid of being martyred before reaching my dream," I told an Italian friend who stood by me every step of the way.

That month became a kind of training, preparing myself to say goodbye to my family. I felt nothing but selfish for leaving. We had suffered together. Why was survival granted only to me? In what world can these feelings be explained?

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The night of 16 December 2025 was the most painful night of my life. I left in tears, saying goodbye to my family without any promise of seeing them again soon.

I knew how uncertain it would be to meet them again. Yet I had to leave that uncertainty behind and try to rebuild, to put the pieces together for a better future - both for myself and my family.

As I travelled to Italy, one question stayed with me throughout my journey: why must we leave our home and family to build a better future?

My heart wanted to feel fully happy because I was finally pursuing one of my biggest dreams. But that happiness is continually interrupted by the thought of the nearly 2 million people in my homeland who wish for the same opportunity.

I feel their suffering deeply.

I wish I could share the opportunity I was given with everyone. I wish I could offer my friends and colleagues in Gaza the same path to safety and possibility.

This shame of being safe is something I hope I can learn to live with - if not overcome - someday.

Life after survival

I arrived in Italy after three days of evacuation, landing in Rome on 17 December.

I had nothing but my phone and charger. I survived with my soul alone.

I left Gaza with guilt, sorrow and tears for the son Israel took from me

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Everything felt unfamiliar. The slow rhythm of life here unsettled me.

In Gaza, every small moment carried the enormous weight of suffering. 

Here, clean streets, smiling faces, food, water and intact buildings surrounded me. All of it should have made me feel relieved and grateful.

Yet being safe while my loved ones remain in Gaza made survival feel empty, as if it had lost its meaning.

Every time my family asks how my day looks, I find myself trying to shrink the distance between our realities. The ease of life here hurts more than I expected - smooth transportation, affordable food, clean air and safety.

But no matter how many difficult days I experienced in Gaza, I still belong to Gaza and to Palestine. I know how home can feel like the safest place, even when it appears to be the most dangerous place on earth.

My greatest goal is to rebuild my academic career and return to my homeland, to pour everything I learn and experience back into Palestine and my people.

Despite my internal struggles, I remain deeply grateful to Italy and the Italian people. They gave many other students and me the opportunity to continue the lives the war had interrupted.

I walk these streets proudly, living in a city where my country's flag flies nearby - a reminder of home. Even still, safety feels incomplete without my family.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.