by Ahmed Shafiq
CAIRO, Sept. 13 (Xinhua) -- In the summer of 2005, a wave of raw hope engulfed us in Gaza, a feeling that now seems almost alien. As a young journalist, I was positioned at the heart of it, witnessing what was hailed as a historic turning point: the Israeli withdrawal from the Gaza Strip.
The newsroom was a crucible of anticipation as we obsessively tracked then Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon's unilateral disengagement plan, our future seemingly hanging in the balance as we monitored live reports and field dispatches.
We processed the raw emotion of the withdrawal: the defiant shouts of settlers refusing to leave homes that had become monuments to a military presence, the tearful farewells under the watchful eyes of Israeli soldiers, and the deliberate demolition of the very structures that had symbolized our oppression.
Each update was a new verse in a complex story of liberation and loss. On Sept. 12, 2005, the symbolic conclusion arrived as the last Israeli soldiers departed, leaving behind a blank canvas where a new Gaza could, we hoped, be painted.
For us, the people of Gaza, this was not just a political event, but rather an existential shift.
Before that moment, my life, and the lives of all Gazans, were defined by the suffocating rhythm of occupation. A simple assignment meant a constant, gnawing fear of the next checkpoint -- each one a potential trap where soldiers held the power to humiliate or detain you.
The initial days were a blur of celebration. The highways of Gaza, normally choked by checkpoints, were alive with parades. Cars adorned with Palestinian flags wound their way through the city, their horns blaring a symphony of freedom.
Unforgettable was the sight of people, entire families, entering the evacuated settlements for the first time. For generations, these urban lands had been a forbidden territory, another world hidden behind fences and watchtowers. It was a moment of profound psychological repossession, a tangible taste of a sovereignty we had only ever dreamed of.
Nevertheless, the hope of 2005 was tragically short-lived. The Israeli withdrawal from Gaza, rather than birthing stability, exposed a political vacuum that spiraled into internal strife.
Israel seized on this fragmentation, imposing a comprehensive blockade that sealed Gaza's land, sea and air. What followed was a slow asphyxiation, compounded by repeated military offensives, including operation "Cast Lead" in 2008, "Pillar of Defense" in 2012 and "Protective Edge" in 2014. Relentless assaults targeted and destroyed homes, infrastructure, schools, hospitals and even Gaza's sole power station, plunging the territory into long hours of darkness.
The echoes of my late father's words still resonate within me. He always pleaded with me to stay in Gaza, clinging to hope even in despair. He would tell me that things were bound to get better one day, that a more brilliant tomorrow was certain to come.
But the 2014 war broke his will. He surrendered to his fear for me, for my perilous life as a field reporter, especially after witnessing the deaths of colleagues during that year's offensive. I can still hear the bitter, feeble tone of his voice when he said: "You're better off traveling and finding a job somewhere else. Gaza is no longer safe for you."
With an Egyptian citizenship, the painful decision was made to leave, seeking refuge for my family -- my wife and two children -- in Cairo.
I had always held onto the belief that these wars were just temporary and that the dream of an independent Palestinian state would one day be realized. Then came Oct. 7, 2023, and the war that followed. This one feels different -- not a cycle, but an unraveling. The political rhetoric from Israeli officials of mass expulsion and annexation, and the echoes of U.S. President Donald Trump's plans to displace Gazans, have turned a political struggle into an existential crisis.
The promise of 2005 has not only been unfulfilled, but has been brutally overturned. And like hundreds of thousands of Palestinians, I am overwhelmed by the deep fear that I will never again be able to see Gaza.
At just 14 years old, my son lives a life of stark contrasts. He understands the cruel twist of fate that has granted him a measure of safety, a new homeland that has embraced him, even as war consumed the place he once called home. He sometimes feels a sense of luck, a quiet gratitude for a life that continues.
Yet, that relief is shadowed by a boyhood marked by unimaginable loss. He carries the weight of memories and the ghosts of friends and relatives who did not survive the war in Gaza. And so, too often, he circles back to a question no child should have to ask: "Will we ever be able to visit Gaza again?" ■
