I lived through the bombings, airstrikes and the endless sorrow that haunted the streets of my homeland. One dreadful night, after the Israeli military had escalated its attacks on Gaza beyond anything I could bear, I watched death unfold before my eyes.
The Israeli occupation claimed the lives of people I loved – my only uncle Hazem, 43, and close friends Ahmad and Moataz, who were in their early twenties.
The rage that consumed me was indescribable.
My Syrian father Mahmoud, 52, once strong and proud, grew old before my eyes, his hair graying as grief overtook him. My Palestinian mother Rawaa, 46, wept in silence, pleading with God to end our suffering.
Finding a way to escape
The Israeli genocide in Gaza had transformed every day into a struggle. I would rise before dawn and stand in line for hours just to collect a few drops of water. Most days, the water was either dirty or gone before my turn came. On the rare lucky day, I managed to bring home enough for my family to bathe. Then, I would head out again to join another line, this time for food.
For the first time in my life, I saw my father cry. My mother had become accustomed to silent tears, overwhelmed by the situation. Then, in February, our family made the hardest decision of my life – to leave Gaza in search of safety and work in Turkey.
I borrowed money from my relatives, packed what little I had and left Gaza physically. I would escape that war-torn land, and find a better life somewhere far away. It took everything I had to gather enough money for the journey – borrowing from family, friends, anyone who still had something to offer.
I hated asking, knowing how desperate they were too, but they gave willingly, with hope in their eyes.
That February morning, I left the city of Deir al-Balah was as though the sky itself was mourning. Fog hung heavy in the air, thick clouds blocking out the sun. The rumble of thunder merged with the distant sound of missiles and aircraft overhead.
I made it to the Rafah crossing unharmed. After hours of waiting, the border guards finally called my name. The sun had long set by the time I completed the paperwork and boarded a bus to Egypt.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I could breathe. I no longer had to fear for my life, though a heavy sadness still weighed on me. After all, I had left behind everything I knew.
In Egypt, I stayed in a modest hotel for a few days. The streets bustled with life. There was food, water, electricity – all the things that had become luxuries to me. The Egyptian people treated me kindly, but even in this new world, I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss.
Gaza, my Gaza, had been reduced to rubble, a place of nightmares.
A new life in Türkiye?
My journey didn’t end in Egypt.
I knew I had to keep moving, keep searching for a place to rebuild my life. A friend was waiting for me in Turkey, so, after two weeks, I booked a flight and headed for Bursa, a city of about 3 million in the country’s northwest, where I hoped to start anew. I quickly found a job as a waiter in a small restaurant, working long hours to make ends meet. I shared a cramped apartment with a few other young men.
But I couldn’t get past the feeling that I was meant for something more. Back home, I had learned the art of tailoring, a skill passed down through generations. So when a friend offered to take me to a sewing workshop, I jumped at the opportunity. I spent every spare moment working there, mastering the craft. I started dreaming of opening my own workshop one day, maybe even hiring a few workers.
I sent most of what little I earned back to my family.
As the days turned into months, the weight of my new life began to take its toll. The cost of living in Turkey was higher than I had anticipated, and I couldn’t earn enough to cover my debts, support my family and keep a roof over my head. What I once thought would be a fresh start had become another chapter in the same story of struggle.
Then came June 2024, bringing with it Eid al-Adha.
I was determined to forget my worries for a few days, to celebrate the holiday despite the war raging back home. I made plans with my two closest friends, Mohammed and Hamza, and we planned to rent a chalet, a small escape where we could relax, cook and laugh – where, for a moment, we could forget the fear and sorrow that had trailed us from Gaza to Turkey.
The night before Eid, the three of us met at a small café near my apartment. We discussed our plans, sharing our hopes for a peaceful few days. We were all bound by the same fate – loss, displacement, and a fragile hope for something better. After hours of conversation, we decided to visit the chalet we had planned to rent. For once, life felt almost normal.
As we walked through the narrow streets of the city, we stumbled upon a small protest in support of Palestine. People waved Palestinian flags and held signs demanding an end to the massacres. I glanced at my shirt, proud of my heritage, but then I noticed something troubling – a group of about 10 Turkish men standing at the corner of the street.
They looked hostile, their eyes following us with hate-filled stares. Their disdain was clear. Racism wasn’t new to me, but the intensity in their eyes unsettled me. My friend Mohammed leaned in and whispered, “Bashar, they’re following us.”
I turned to see the group moving toward us, their pace quickening. We picked up our pace, but the leader of the group shouted slurs at us.
“Stop, you filthy Arab!”
My heart raced as their insults grew more vicious.
“Go back to your country, you terrorists!”
Mohammed, unable to stay silent, shouted back in defense of our homeland. The leader of the gang lunged forward, pulling out a weapon. A cold wave of fear washed over me.
“Run!” Mohammed shouted.
Searing pain of stabbing
We took off, sprinting through the winding alleys. We scattered, each of us taking a different path in a desperate attempt to escape. I found myself alone, thinking I had outrun them, but as I turned a corner, I saw one of the men right behind me. My breaths came in short, panicked gasps. In a flash, he stabbed me in the back.
The pain was searing. My legs gave way, and I collapsed onto the cold ground. The last thing I heard was the sound of his footsteps retreating before everything went black.
When I awoke, I was surrounded by the sterile white walls of a hospital. My body felt broken, and every breath was labored. I turned my head and saw Mohammed and Hamza sitting by my side. Mohammed whispered, “You’re safe now,” but I couldn’t respond.
The doctors told me that the knife had punctured my lung and that they had inserted a tube to drain the blood. The pain was overwhelming, but I survived.
Barely.
Eid came and went, but instead of celebrating in the chalet, I spent the holiday in a hospital bed. As I lay there, memories of Gaza flooded my mind. I had escaped death once in my homeland, only to face it again in a foreign land.
The cruel irony was that even here, in the place I had fled to for safety, violence and hatred still found me.
But I endured.
Though my body was weakened, my spirit remained unbroken. I sought justice, filing a complaint against the man who attacked me.
But how could I, a refugee, accuse a native of Türkiye?
My efforts were in vain. The courts dismissed my case, and I was forced to drop charges.
The future is a blur of unknowns, and every day, I ask the same questions: Do I risk everything for a chance at something better, or do I stay here, in this endless cycle of hardship?
My heart is torn, and the answers are nowhere to be found.
Bashar Jalabi
Bashar Jalabi is a tailor and a writer. He was displaced to Türkiye from Gaza.
