Chapter One: The Hometown and the Homeland

I’m 32, Muslim by faith, Palestinian by blood, born in Dubai where my father worked as a teacher for many years, building a life away from the hardships of occupation. I was raised between two worlds, my hometown and my homeland. We traveled during summer vacations every couple of years to visit our extended families, and through those journeys, I saw the truth of our reality. The restrictions, the checkpoints, the constant surveillance — we witnessed the oppression firsthand. Traveling wasn’t fun activity for us; it was a reminder of everything we’re denied.

We moved back to Palestine when I was 12. I still remember how hard that shift was — longing for the friends I left behind, the playgrounds I used to run through, and the softness of a life that suddenly felt so far away. It was a constant lingering feeling. That stayed for years. But eventually turned into a memory I can barely recall.

Coming back to Palestine felt both familiar and foreign. I loved it deeply, but I didn’t fully know how to belong. Everything was heavier — the atmosphere, the rules, the reality. I saw things a child shouldn’t have to see. And though it was home, part of me felt like a visitor for a long time — trying to reconnect with something I was never given the chance to fully grow up in.

Chapter Two: What I Survived in Silence

Years have passed. I’ve grown, graduated, worked multiple jobs, and eventually found a career that felt right for me — and that alone was a kind of healing.

I’ve only been in one relationship — we got engaged, and in the end, I chose to leave. He was emotionally abusive. I survived it, quietly. I never spoke in detail about what I was going through — not to a single soul. I never repeated the things he said to me, except inside my own head.

Calling it off was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I found the strength to do it. And I carry that strength with me, even now.

Since then, I’ve only loved in silence — in thoughts, never in action. Dating doesn’t align with what I believe in, and arranged marriage never felt right to my heart.
I’ve reached a point in life where I know exactly what kind of love I can hold space for — and what I will never accept again. I can’t bring someone into my world unless I love him deeply and genuinely. But just as much, I need to feel safe in how I’m loved — spoken to with kindness, held with respect, never made to doubt myself or my worth.

Not perfection, but steadiness. Softness wrapped in strength — the kind of man who leads with compassion and never lets his words wound what he’s meant to protect.
It’s this or nothing, and I’d always take the quiet of nothing over the noise of being half-loved.

Chapter Three: 32

Since I was six, my favorite number has been 32. I don’t know why exactly, but I was always drawn to it. And for as long as I can remember, I used to joke — maybe half-seriously — that I’d probably only live to 32. Now that I’ve reached this age, it feels strangely symbolic. But even with that thought, I’ve never been scared of death. I’ve just never felt too attached to this life.

Socially, I’ve always done well. I get along with people, I connect easily; but deep down, it’s hard to find someone I truly click with. That kind of connection is hard to find. Maybe because I don’t let people in easily anymore. Maybe because I’ve raised the bar too high. Or maybe because I’ve learned the difference between being liked and being respected. And I’m no longer willing to settle for anything less than both.

Chapter Four: The Ungranted Gift of Freedom

What weighs on me more than anything is living under occupation. It’s a constant layer of grief in the background of every moment. There’s resistance in me — a burning desire to live, to thrive, to just be — but we’re restricted, humiliated, and treated as if we’re less than human. I cry almost every day- not just for myself, but for all of us. For the things we can’t do. The places we can’t go. The dignity we constantly have to fight for.

I watch videos of people around the world doing the simplest things — things that should be basic rights — and it shatters me. Traveling freely. Walking safely. Having peace of mind. And I wonder why we’re denied all of that. The ache of being treated like second-class citizens in our own land never leaves. It’s more than politics — it’s about basic humanity. About the pain of being told, every day in every way, that your life doesn’t matter as much.

Sometimes I cry over places I’ve never been. The other day, I stumbled upon a video of a shore in Istanbul — waves crashing hard against the concrete, while a mosque stood quietly in the distance. The sea moved freely. The sky was soft and blue. And watching it, I broke. Something about that place made me sob like I had lost something.
I don’t know why — but it felt like I missed it, deeply, even though I’ve never been there in my life. Maybe it’s not the place I long for, but the freedom. The peace. The version of me that might’ve existed somewhere else.

Chapter Five: The Road That Calms Me

I love long car rides — the steady hum of movement, the quiet blur of the world passing by. There’s something in motion that calms me, something that feels safer than standing still. As if every turn, every mile, is carrying me somewhere I’m meant to be. It’s taking me to a free place — a place where military checkpoints don’t block every road, where guns aren’t pointed at you just for moving from town to town.
Movement makes me feel free and safe — like I’m finally heading home.
But that feeling fades the minute the ride ends, and I’m reminded that I never really left.

Still, with all the heaviness, all the injustice, all that has been lived, carried, and felt — what brings me the deepest and strongest peace, is knowing that this life is not the end. It’s not the destination. It’s just a road, winding and difficult, but always leading back to where we truly belong.
And somehow, that’s enough to keep me going.