AneesQablan

I was born in Khan Younis, in the Gaza Strip, in 2005. And when I try to put into order everything my generation has lived through in just 21 years, I sometimes feel that we did not live one lifetime… but many lifetimes, one after another. 2005 — I was one year old. Israel withdrew its settlements from inside the Gaza Strip. For a moment, many people felt that perhaps things could be different, and that there might be a chance for a quieter life. 2006 — I was one year old. Palestinian elections were held, followed by an increasingly difficult political and economic period. The blockade gradually began to impose itself on every detail of our lives. 2007 — I was two years old. The Palestinian political division and the tightening of the blockade on Gaza. From then on, crossings, electricity, fuel, and travel became everyday realities controlling the lives of more than two million people. 2008–2009 — I was 3–4 years old. The first Israeli war on Gaza that I lived through, although I was far too young to understand what war meant. I did not yet have the words to describe what was happening, but the fear was there before I even knew its name. 2012 — I was seven years old. Another war on Gaza. Only a few days, but enough to bring back the sounds of aircraft, explosions, and fear. 2014 — I was nine years old. Fifty-one days of war. This was the first war I could remember clearly. The bombing, displacement, fear, destruction, and the faces of people we knew—faces that suddenly became names in the news. From that war onward, war was no longer something I heard about from adults. It became something I experienced and remembered. 2018–2019 — I was 13–14 years old. The Great March of Return protests along Gaza’s border, confrontations, and the deaths and injuries of large numbers of people, while the blockade continued and life became even harder. 2021 — I was 16 years old. Another war, lasting 11 days. The same sound of aircraft. The same long nights. And the same question that grew up with us: How long will this continue? 2022 — I was 17 years old. Another escalation and another round of bombardment. We had begun measuring the years by what happened in them, trying to remember: Which escalation was that? How old were we then? 2023 — I was 18 years old. October 7 happened, and Gaza entered one of the most devastating wars in its modern history. 2023–2026 — From 18 to 21 years old. Three years that words cannot fully describe. During those years, I lost my brother. I lost relatives, friends, and people I loved. I experienced loss, displacement, hunger, fear, and destruction. I watched homes disappear, neighborhoods change beyond recognition, and families lose the people they loved and the lives they had built. And today, in 2026, I am 21 years old. In just 21 years, I have lived through: The withdrawal and evacuation of settlements, elections and political division, the blockade, the wars of 2008–2009, 2012, 2014, and 2021, countless escalations in between, and then October 7, 2023, followed by years of war, destruction, and loss. A generation born hearing about hope… only to grow up memorizing the years of war. Our childhood was not normal. Our adolescence was not normal. And our youth was not normal. And yet, we studied. We worked. We loved. We dreamed. Some of us got married and had children. And every time, we tried to begin our lives again, even when life kept forcing us back to zero. Perhaps that is why it is so difficult to explain to someone who has never lived in Gaza what it means to be from Gaza. Gaza is not simply the place where I was born. Gaza is carrying, at the age of 21, memories that are enough to fill more than one lifetime.