Mahmoud Mushtaha is a freelance journalist and human-rights activist from Gaza currently living in Cairo.
Since I fled Gaza, I feel like I’ve been balancing on a razor’s edge. Each moment is a tumultuous blend of relief and guilt – gratitude for surviving, and sorrow for those who have lost their lives or remain trapped, facing daily threats of death from Israeli forces. This feeling intensifies with each piece of devastating news, a relentless barrage of heartbreak that ignites a profound sense of helplessness and anger.
I was forced to leave Gaza alone on April 7, after 184 days of enduring the agony of the Israel-Hamas War. Even now, I can’t comprehend how I managed to leave. How did I leave my family and friends behind? How did I leave everything behind? Where did I find the courage to pass through the checkpoint run by Israel, which has detained and killed so many men my age?
People urged me not to leave Gaza, warning me of the dangers of passing through the Israeli checkpoint. But facing daily bombings, hunger and the constant threat of death in northern Gaza, the risk of leaving seemed no greater than the peril of staying. The decision to leave was not taken lightly; it was driven by an overwhelming need to escape the relentless suffering and find some semblance of safety.
Leaving Gaza at the time I did was nearly impossible. People had to pay an agent in Egypt US$5,000. Then you had to wait at least a month, and your name could still be rejected after all that. Today, leaving Gaza is truly impossible. As my 23-year-old friend Ahmed Ziad told me, “Travelling outside Gaza is impossible, even in your dreams.” He paid US$5,000 and was waiting for his name to be listed for departure, but in the blink of an eye, Israeli forces invaded Rafah, took control of the crossing, and restrictions from both Egypt and Israel are preventing the movement of people and goods. Now, more than two million people are trapped in Gaza, unable to leave.
Even two months after leaving Gaza, my mind remains trapped there. I constantly strive to escape the nightmare, but it continues to haunt me. Every day brings news of a friend’s death, a relative detained, or new displacement. These events fill me with regret and a deep sense of guilt. I feel selfish for having survived while leaving others behind to die.
On a recent Friday, seeking to offer a ray of hope to my family in Gaza, I filmed a video of myself making my way to the mosque in Cairo, expressing my longing for the day we could gather freely and pray together. But just minutes after sharing the video, the hopeful moment was shattered by devastating news. I got a call from my cousin in Sweden telling me that Israeli planes bombed my uncle’s house the previous night. My uncle, Hisham Zafer Mushtaha, his wife, and 11 members of his family were killed. The weight of this loss struck me with profound force, leaving me stunned and struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the tragedy unfolding.
In the midst of grief, I grappled with existential questions about the value of life beyond Gaza’s borders. It felt as though our existence held little meaning in the eyes of the world. Even as I tried to find moments of hope for the future I wondered, how could I continue with life outside Gaza, knowing the devastation my family faced at home?
As I navigate the dual realities of hope and despair, I find myself torn between these worlds. How can I console my family from afar while they endure the daily horrors of death and destruction? Each attempt to bridge the gap feels futile against the backdrop of continuing war and loss. The news arrives in waves, each time opening a fresh wound. I find myself numb, struggling to process the enormity of the tragedy, and at the same time, I feel an overwhelming urge to do something – anything – to help. But what can I do? The feeling of helplessness is suffocating, and survivor’s guilt is a cruel companion.