I was born and raised in Bani Suhayla, a small town of 40,000 people in Khan Younis Governorate of Gaza. It was a place where everyone knew each other. We lived in a big house, surrounded by my extended family and fields with olive and fruit trees. Our close-knit community provides a sense of security and comfort.

Fifteen months of ruthless war destroyed this sense of belonging. My family and I have been forcibly displaced several times, and even though we are still in Gaza, Palestine, I feel like a stranger.

In December 2023, we had to leave home for the first time. We fled to what Israel claims is a “safe zone” in the Khan Yunis Mawasi area. When we arrived there was chaos and we struggled to find a small spot on the beach to pitch our tent.

We are surrounded by people we don’t know. Palestinians from across Gaza have fled to the area. As I wandered around the camp, all I saw were unfamiliar faces. People looked at me with ambiguous eyes, as if silently asking: “Stranger, who are you?”

Al-Mawasi used to be a beach where my friends and I loved to go and relax. It is heartbreaking to see it transformed into a displacement camp filled with grieving people who have lost their homes and loved ones.

By February we had to flee to Rafah. After the Israeli occupation forces issued forced displacement orders across the Gaza Strip, one million homeless people gathered in the southern city. We are one of them.

Streets and public spaces are crowded with displaced people, who set up tents wherever they can find space. Yet this place felt like a desert to me: barren and desolate.

My family and I live in tents and, like other displaced people, are in constant pain. I spent my days wandering the alleys of the city hoping to find food to buy – if I could afford it. I often come home empty-handed.

Occasionally, I meet someone I know—a friend or relative—who brings me moments of joy, followed by deep sadness. Joy at finding them alive quickly turned to sadness when they told me that others we knew had been martyred.

Inevitably, my friends or relatives would comment on my apparent weight loss, pale complexion, and frailty. They often admit they didn’t recognize me at first sight.

When I returned to my tent, I would feel a tightness in my chest and be overwhelmed by a sense of alienation. Not only was I surrounded by strangers, but even the people who knew me became strangers.

The suffering of the displaced is constant and unbearable. Nothing matters more than news of new forced displacements, which often comes in the form of Israeli warplanes dropping leaflets over our skies. We packed our bags quickly because we knew the planes would be back soon—not with more leaflets, but with more bombs.

In April, Israelis distributed leaflets informing us that we were being forced to leave Rafah. We fled with a small bag containing the few possessions we had and all the burdens we had carried: hunger, fear, and the pain of bereavement.

We returned to Khan Younis—the western region that Israel claims is “safe”—only to find the place devastated and without any sign of life. All roads, shops, educational institutions and residential buildings were reduced to rubble.

We had to pitch our tents next to the destroyed houses. I wandered the streets and looked in disbelief at the scale of destruction caused by the Israeli occupation. I no longer recognize the city I used to frequent with my friends.

In August, for the first time since the war began, I managed to reach the community of Bani Suhaila, east of the city of Khan Younis. I thought that was the end of the feeling of alienation, but it wasn’t.

I walked among people I knew and people who knew me, but the strange looks remained—not because they didn’t know me, but because I looked much worse than they had ever seen me. They looked at me in surprise, as if I had become a different person. Their gazes only deepened my sense of alienation, loneliness, and loss.

It’s hard for me to comprehend the destruction and disappearance of all the places and landmarks that once defined my hometown. The house where I grew up was reduced to ashes by a fire caused by shelling. It was filled with rubble and our possessions turned into something resembling lumps of coal.

Today, after 15 months of war, we are still displaced. Everywhere I go, people ask me: “Oh, displaced person, where are you from?” Everyone looks at me strangely. I had lost everything except the one thing I had been trying to escape from during this war: alienation. I became a stranger in my own hometown.

The views expressed in this article are the author’s own and do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of Al Jazeera.