In Gaza, my family once lived by the land. Now survival is all that remains Submitted by Amr Aborouk on Mon, 12/29/2025 - 14:40 I grew up on my family's farm east of Khan Younis. After repeated displacement and starvation, our home was destroyed and our land stolen - along with the space to be human Amr Aborouk is pictured amid the rubble of what used to be his home in the town of Khuzaa, in the Gaza Strip, after it was destroyed by Israeli forces (Supplied) Off I am from Khuzaa, a town east of Khan Younis in the southern Gaza Strip , near the Israeli fence. It is where I was raised and where I lived with my family on our farm. Today, I write not as a victim, but as a witness to a life changed in a single moment and to a homeland torn from the hands of its own people. Before the war, I was just a secondary school student. Each morning, I woke to the sound of wind passing over wheat stalks and the crowing of a rooster, which seemed to announce that a new day full of work and hope had begun. My family owned a 100-dunam (10-hectare) farm where we grew wheat, barley, watermelon, spinach, tomatoes and everything else the land generously provided. My father, my brothers and I worked the land together. We had a donkey to help plough it and a motorbike to move between the fields. Our daily lives revolved around the colour of the soil, its texture beneath the crops and the scent of the plants we grew. My brothers were at university, and I was preparing for my final year of secondary school. I hoped to earn a high grade that would allow me to study either agricultural engineering to develop our farm or computer programming, which could open new opportunities for my future. I studied hard and dreamed even bigger, never imagining our life of relative calm could be erased in an instant. Escaping death There was no warning. Suddenly, missiles fell, and the gates of destruction were flung open over Gaza. Since losing our home, even the most basic needs have become battles: a battle for food, a struggle for water, a fight simply to remain alive. We ran from our home carrying only what we could. Leaving everything else behind, the only thing I could take with me was a small bag that still smelled of home. It became the last thing connecting me to the house, the farm and the memories rooted in them. This was the first displacement; then came the second, the third, and many more, until the count reached 23. Each time we were forced to leave, it felt as though we left a piece of ourselves behind, carrying only what our shoulders could bear. Death moved constantly among us. I remember walking through the narrow streets of the camp, trying to pass between tattered tents and terrified people, when a missile suddenly struck our neighbours' tent. The explosion was close to me. I sustained minor injuries, while everyone inside the tent was killed. I felt death pursuing us without mercy and realised then that war is not just explosions; it is the erasure of entire lives in a single moment. It leaves behind a heavy silence and a pain that engraves itself on the heart, turning every step through the camp into a walk edged with fear. Follow Middle East Eye's live coverage of Israel's genocide in Gaza Since losing our home, even the most basic needs have become battles: a battle for food, a struggle for water, a fight simply to remain alive. I have stood for hours in bread queues, under the sun and amid bombardment, often receiving no more than a single loaf. Water has become a dream. There were many times when we were forced to chase water trucks to secure a few litres for the family, with every step heavy with danger. Even toilets require queues, and with them we lost any semblance of privacy. The war left us no space to be human. We were only meant to survive. Never enough tears Nothing weighs heavier on the heart than walking behind the coffin of someone you love. I saw friends buried, relatives lost and mothers bent over the bodies of their sons. There were never enough tears for the number of losses. At one point, I stood in medicine queues clutching a piece of paper with my injured cousin's name written on it, as though the paper itself were his life. Medicine was scarce. The waiting was long. Each time I returned with a small box of medication, it felt as though we had defeated death, if only slightly. A tent is not a home. It is a temporary roof that offers only partial protection from rain, wind or cold. Each passing day inside it tested our patience and our will to stay alive. Amr Aborouk is pictured on his family's farmland (left), alongside an undated photo of their home in Khuzaa, in the Gaza Strip, before both were destroyed by Israeli forces (Supplied) Then came the great famine , which lasted at least eight months. Food became a luxury and water a dream. We dreamed of a single loaf of bread . We missed even being able to smell it. At times, we bought tree leaves at extortionate prices to quiet our hunger and drank contaminated water. My brothers and I, along with hundreds of others, travelled to the Miraj and Tineh areas on the outskirts of Rafah, zones under Israeli occupation control, running beneath aircraft and bombardment to obtain a single sack of flour. Either we carried it back alive or we returned as martyrs. Those places were real death traps. During one displacement in Rafah, I was digging a pit for a sewage well. While I was inside the hole, the sand collapsed and buried me. For a moment, I was certain my life had ended, but people rescued me before I suffocated to death. When I emerged, I realised that in war, death does not require a missile. A pit and rubble are enough. Distant dreams Despite everything, my dream of returning to Khuzaa and cultivating the land has remained alive within me. I dream of planting wheat, barley, watermelon and vegetables, and of seeing the land I loved bear fruit once again. I continued to study not by candlelight, but by the glow of fire belts lighting the sky. I reviewed my lessons while aircraft flew overhead, with determination so fierce it felt like resistance - a refusal to let my soul lose the last thing it still possessed. Blood or bread: Surviving Israel’s vicious hunger regime in Gaza Read More » I achieved a score of 84 percent. It should have been a moment of joy, but the universities had all been destroyed, and the only money we had was spent on survival - thousands of dollars on flour alone. Our dreams grew more distant than our ability to reach them. But the hardest moment came when I returned to Khuzaa and saw my home destroyed. The farm I grew up on was burned to the ground; then came the devastating news that the occupation regime had taken control of all our land. One hundred dunams of my life were gone, as though my roots had been torn from the earth and from my heart at the same time. Today, I live among tents, between hunger and bombardment, between fear and cold. But despite everything, I am still writing. I am not a number in a news bulletin. I am a human being who once had a home, land, a farm, dreams and a path to walk. The war took everything, but it did not take my voice. This is my story. And it is not mine alone. It is the story of every young person in Gaza who is still fighting to live one more day. The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye. Israel's genocide in Gaza Opinion Post Date Override 0 Update Date Mon, 05/04/2020 - 21:29 Update Date Override 0