Zayyoun Abbadi
To Gaza: A Story by Zayyoun
Hi. This is the story of a Gazan. One voice among many that could speak for thousands who have lived through worse, and continue to survive the worst crisis and genocide imaginable.
I never felt I had the right to speak about what I lived through, especially compared to the beloved people of Gaza who lost everything. So, I present this to you with deep sorrow, carrying the shame of the martyr’s blood and the immense loss of everything Gaza once was.
I am Zayyoun. I am Gaza.
I’m Zayyoun, from Gaza.
I had to leave Gaza, but Gaza never left me.
I’m a refugee twice over: once, when my grandfather was displaced during the Nakba in 1948 and forced into Gaza, and now again, me, stuck in Europe, an asylum seeker in Norway. I’ve been waiting for two years just to be recognized as a human being who deserves protection. Still waiting. Still denied the right to work, study, or do anything meaningful.
I’m 27 years old… plus two years.
But part of me is frozen at 27, on the day of my surprise birthday party in Gaza back in 2023. Time moved on, but I didn’t.
Maybe this sounds like a messy introduction, but then again, the whole world feels like a mess right now.
From this point on, I’ll speak as two versions of myself:
Zayyoun before the genocide, and Zayyoun after.
Before the Genocide
I used to introduce myself as a passionate girl with a heart full of energy and love. I dreamed of doing everything I could for my home, for Gaza. I loved my family, my friends, my work, my people. I loved life.
My days were filled with hearty laughter, long car rides where I sang off-key, struggles, but also compassion. Morning chats over “Mazaj sandwiches” and mint tea, hugs from my brothers, rides from my cousin, family gatherings in Rafah at my aunt’s house eating malfof, and my mother’s voice, always sounding like a prayer keeping me safe. A home that smelled of warmth, cooking, and love.
Every detail of my life was a treasure.
I walked the streets talking to myself, taking snaps, complaining about reckless drivers, laughing at work, singing and dancing with friends, sharing breakfast at Aunt Reem’s. I felt alive. So alive.
I used to say:
“الله العالم وين الدنيا ماخدانا بعد كم شهر خلينا نستغل كل لحظة”
Allah knows where life will take us in a few months, so let’s live every moment.
But none of us ever imagined—never even in our nightmares—that life as we knew it could vanish in the blink of an eye.
After the Genocide
All of that, all of me… was stolen in an instant.
My identity, my roots, my world, torn away.
Life in Gaza stopped. But the world didn’t.
I was far away, with no goodbye, no closure. Feeling like less of a Gazan. Surviving, but buried in guilt. I hated the world. I grieved every kind of loss.
Suddenly, I was no longer living. I was just… existing.
I’m meant to carry on life outside Gaza, but I’m stuck in a place that doesn’t feel like mine. I ask myself every day:
Where am I?
What brought me here?
What the hell am I doing here?
Today
My heart feels like it’s died, not literally, but as if it’s no longer mine. Like it’s been torn from me.
There are no words left for anger, hatred, or grief. No tears. No sanity.
I ended up in Norway. And being here makes me feel even more helpless. This waiting, two years and counting, is killing me. Killing the little pieces of strength I had left.
What humanity does Europe pretend to represent?
Stop being fake. Stop being hypocritical. Just stop.
I’m angry at the world.
Who gave it the right to do this to us?
To make me feel less Gazan? To uproot me?
I live a double life now, lost between two versions of myself. Stuck in an identity crisis I never chose. Forced to live, even though every breath feels like it peels away more of who I was.
Today, I’m not just missing.
I’m hurt.
Hurt from everything that was lost.
From time gone.
From a life that changed.
From gatherings that shattered.
From a home that became a dream.
From a passion and a future that disappeared.
From hope that was erased.
From a situation that hasn’t changed in two years, as the world just watches.
From heartbreak after heartbreak, until we can no longer stand.
From a country I gave my soul to, that has now become unreachable.
I’m sorry if this sounds too raw, too much, but this is the real face of life now.
Hope?
I try to find hope wherever I can. But how do you hope in a situation worse than words can describe?
Where does hope come from?
Shouldn’t something good happen to create hope?
Hope for Gaza, under siege, under bombs, starving?
Hope for my family, for my people?
Hope in waiting two years in a place I never chose, for a decision I never wanted to have to wait for?
People say time heals everything.
But time just passes through me.
Tearing away at my soul, little by little.
The only hope I have left is in something miraculous.
Something that lets us breathe again.
That gives us even a small taste of dignity—as human beings.
But as long as Gaza is being destroyed—there is no hope.
No goodness.
No future.
Stop the Genocide.
Let food into Gaza.
Stop the starvation.
Free Gaza.
Let Gaza live.
Zayyoun…