Homes do not disappear when walls collapse. They disappear slowly — when laughter leaves the rooms, when fear
sleeps beside your children, when every sound at the door feels like danger, when the place that once protected you
begins to ask you to survive it.
Before the war that followed 7 October 2023 in Gaza, my life was beautifully ordinary. I loved my home with the
devotion some people reserve for grand dreams. I cared for every corner of it. I decorated it for Eid, prepared food
with joy, welcomed my family, my aunts, and my friends. My house was always open, warm, alive.
I believed happiness was simple: a full table, familiar voices, children running through the hallway, and people who arrived
without invitation because love never needed one.
Now, I sometimes watch strangers laugh loudly and wonder where joy still comes from. My own face almost forgot
how to smile.
I loved my country deeply. I did not know that distance from home could become an illness with no cure. At first, leaving was only an idea people mentioned in whispers, like something impossible. We spoke of travel the way people speak of storms they think will pass. But war does not pass politely.
It enters everything.
When the bombing intensified after the Gaza war began, death became part of daily routine. My children lost friends.
They lost teachers. They lost the right to feel safe. The sound of explosions still lives inside me. Even now, certain
noises can return me to those moments.
After a long and painful wait, approval finally came for travel. But only for me. My husband and children were not
included. How can a mother accept safety alone?
I refused. I waited. I hoped the decision would change. But death was moving faster than paperwork. Finally, I called
the embassy and said I would take my children and try.
That morning, my eldest son cried. He said, Mother, you once told me that God creates miracles. Take me with you.
Just try.
He came with me to the crossing with no passport, no papers, nothing except faith.
At first, an officer said maybe. We waited for hours. Then another officer arrived and said no. He must return.
I begged in a way only mothers understand. After calls, delays, and desperate waiting, permission came: my son could travel with me. My husband had to remain behind.
That day I learned that survival can carry the shape of grief.
When I arrived in Australia, I could hardly believe I was alive. Running water. Electricity that stays. Food without fear.
A night without explosions. Safety is invisible only to those who have always had it.
But Australia gave me more than safety. It gave me dignity, opportunity, and the chance to begin again. Over time, I
grew to love this country deeply.
I am also profoundly grateful to my eldest brother, whose support and sacrifice opened the path for me to come here.
So I worked. I learned. I began again from zero.
I created a simple food menu with affordable prices and shared it in one community group. I expected silence.
Instead, my phone filled with messages and orders from Melbourne, Sydney, and Brisbane.
Later, an organisation invited me to run cooking workshops. I accepted immediately.
Some nights I returned home after midnight. Some mornings I left before sunrise. I waited for buses in freezing wind,
heavy rain, and burning heat while carrying bags, sometimes with my young son beside me.
Still, I continued. Because women like me do not stop when they are tired. We stop only when we are finished.
After many setbacks, I earned my driver’s licence and bought my first car. To me, it was freedom with four wheels.
This journey taught me something important: Refugees are not defined by their displacement, but by their talents,
dreams, and contributions to the society that welcomes them.
We came to Australia carrying our heritage, identity, and experiences to share them. We do not arrive empty-handed.
Today, when I look at myself, I do not only see a woman who survived war. I see a woman who walked through fire
and did not burn.
My homeland still lives in me — in my language, in my cooking, in the way I love, and in the tears that still arrive
without warning.
But now another love lives beside it. Gratitude for Australia, the country that received me not as ruins, but as a future
still possible.
Some women, when war destroys their houses, become houses themselves — places of shelter, warmth, and hope
for others.
I am one of them.
Our first stop was Egypt. We spent three days in a beautiful hotel. After months of hunger, the tables were filled with delicious food and desserts. Every bite felt unreal.
There was hot water, soft white sheets, and a quiet room where no explosions could reach us.
I stood under the shower for a long time. I wasn’t just washing my body—I was trying to wash away the war. I imagined the smoke, the fear, and the sadness flowing down the drain with the water.
Then the hotel accountant came to ask for payment. I told him that we were under the care of the Australian Embassy. I couldn’t believe the kindness we were shown. They even sent luxury cars to take us to the airport.
Everything still felt like a dream.
After a very long journey, our plane landed in Melbourne, Australia.
That day became one of the most important days of my life.
My brother was waiting for us at the airport. No words can fully express what he did for us. He was the reason we escaped one of the darkest chapters of our lives.
Then my new life began.
Everything was different.
I often say that my homeland was like a dress made exactly for me—it fit perfectly because I knew every part of it. Australia, on the other hand, felt like a dress that was far too big. I kept stumbling as I tried to find my place.
For the first time in my life, I used Google Maps. The streets, the signs, the bus numbers, the directions—everything felt confusing. Should I go left or right? Which bus should I take?
Many times I got on the wrong bus and got lost.
I missed doctor’s appointments. I forgot school meetings. I came home exhausted and cried.
In those moments, I missed my homeland more than ever.
Where are you, my home?
Only after leaving did I realize how simple life had been there. I had never noticed the beauty of the familiar until it became a memory.
Later, I rented a house that looked exactly like the little house I used to draw as a child. Whenever my teacher asked us to draw, I always drew the same house with a small roof and windows. Somehow, years later, I found myself living inside that childhood drawing.
The house was close to the shopping centre. I would fill my shopping trolley and pull it all the
way home. Sometimes it felt so heavy that I wished I had wings.
On hot summer days, the Victorian sun burned my face.
On rainy days, I walked home completely soaked because there were no taxis passing by that I could simply wave down, as I used to do back home.
Every small task had become a lesson.
Then came another challenge—school.
My children struggled to adjust, especially my middle son. In one year alone, I moved him to three different schools, hoping each time that we had finally found the right place. It was one of the hardest seasons of my life as a mother.
Eventually, I started looking for work.
That was when I discovered something beautiful.
People were kind.
Emergency Relief Team Inc 