Escaping Gaza has left me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I had managed to survive a genocide that had starved and almost killed me and my family. But I was also saying goodbye to a place I had loved for my entire life. The moment we crossed into Egypt, we were destined for a life as exiles—refugees with no clear destination, searching for a place to feel at home again. Leaving behind everything we had built—every dream and ambition—was dreadful. We were forced to start a new life from scratch.
I left Gaza because I want to keep talking about it. I want to keep my home—Palestine—in my life and work. To do that, I have to stay alive, and that got harder every day in Gaza. As Palestinian journalists, we are deprived of any protection that international law or press credentials should provide. I have lost many colleagues and loved ones simply because they took on the responsibility of highlighting the struggles of their fellow Palestinians.
olddogthoughts 
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