GAZA CITY/Palestine 

At Nasser Hospital in southern Gaza, the night stretched longer than usual.

Families gathered in the dimly lit courtyard, wrapped in winter coats and silence, waiting for a bus that carried more than returning patients. It carried months, sometimes years, of forced absence. When the bus finally appeared, no one rushed forward.

In Gaza, reunions are never simple. They come tangled with fear. Who returned, and who did not.

A sister returns, a mother does not.

Mai al-Azzab stood frozen near the hospital entrance, her gaze fixed on the bus door. Nearly 20 months earlier, her mother had left Gaza healthy, escorting Mai’s sick sister to Egypt for treatment.

Mai had imagined this moment countless times, both women stepping down together.

Instead, only one appeared.

“My sister came back alone,” Mai told Anadolu, her words heavy and restrained. “My mother left Gaza without illness. Today she remains buried in Egypt.”

The sentence lingered, unfinished, as if reality itself refused to settle.

Mai tried to celebrate her sister’s return. She failed.

“There is no house to return to,” she said quietly. “No place for my mother. Not even a wall left to remember her.”

The family home, like much of Gaza, had been flattened. The reunion unfolded amid rubble, survival colliding with irreversible loss.

A journey that nearly became a permanent exile

Nearby, Israa Imran waited in silence, her hands clenched to keep warm.

Her father had left Gaza in April 2024 for treatment in Egypt, after Israeli attacks crippled the health system and left hospitals in ruins. What was meant to be a temporary journey turned into a prolonged separation enforced by border closures.

“We lived with the expectation that we might never see him again,” Israa said. “That’s what the war does. It teaches you not to hope.”

When treatment ended, the Rafah crossing remained shut. Weeks became months. Months became years.

“The waiting was the hardest part,” she said. “The cold, the uncertainty, the silence after the last phone call.”

Her father’s return, when it finally came, felt unreal.

“We were alive in Gaza,” Israa said, “but empty.”

A promise carried across the border

Not far away, Layan Imran held tightly onto a pair of plastic slippers. They were worn, ordinary, yet sacred.

“My mother promised she would return to Gaza barefoot,” Layan explained. “I brought these for after.”

The bus was late. Hours passed. The cold intensified. Still, she waited.

“They told us one hour,” she said. “It became many. But we never let go of hope.”

When her mother finally stepped down from the bus, barefoot, the promise was complete. Gaza, despite everything, had been reached.

Degrading treatment

Amani Imran had spent two years away from home.

“The road back was harsh,” she said. “Humiliating. Exhausting.”

Israeli screening, long interrogations, and confiscated belongings are familiar rituals for Gaza’s travelers.

“But the moment I breathed Gaza’s air,” she added, “I forgot all of it.”

She paused, then smiled faintly.

“It’s enough that I returned.”

Israel reopened the Rafah crossing on Feb. 2 under extremely limited conditions, months after occupying it in May 2024. Movement remains tightly controlled.

Despite reports suggesting dozens would be allowed to cross daily, actual numbers have remained minimal.

Health officials say around 22,000 patients are still waiting for permission to leave Gaza for treatment, while some 80,000 Palestinians have registered to return. It is a collective refusal to accept displacement, even amid devastation.

Those who do return often speak of harsh interrogations and degrading treatment. Yet none spoke of regret.

In Gaza, returning is not the end of suffering.

It is an insistence on memory, on belonging, and on staying human in a place where even reunions come wounded.

Written by Tarek Chouiref