Our Homes: Marwa Abuaita (Part One)

The third entry in the column Our Homes, by Sebastian Elder.

Photography by Marwa Abuaita

Marwa knew from an early age where home was for her; the fourth child in a growing family, she was born in the Jabaliya refugee camp in Northern Gaza, though soon after moved into the home her parents were building further East. Here, she was raised between walls of well-earned pride, a structure whose eventual completion marked the culmination of a three-decade long dream. To this day, her mother can recall each detail of its construction as though it were yesterday. 

It would quickly come to host the kind of happenings that form stories, and the kind of stories that work their way into the earliest notion of an identity. One such story - which Marwa remembers not of her own accord, but by virtue of its repetition at home - entailed her parents attempting to teach her older brother a poem for school. Marwa, then two-years old, memorised it perfectly after hearing just two renditions. This anecdote is emblematic of some of the virtues that define Marwa Abuaita today: erudite and expressive beyond her years, “intelligent, kind, caring, and unique” in the eyes of her friends. Her home was not confined to these walls, but extended deep into the sprawling streets and sounds that constituted Gaza City. My efforts to learn what this looked like through images online were in vain, producing only pages infested with indistinguishable mounds of rubble. Fortunately, Marwa herself paints a vivid picture: 

“My home was a beautiful beautiful city. Gaza city, and specifically Al Remal street, were the heart of the Gaza strip. It had all the big restaurants, malls, universities, banks, libraries and centers. At the coast, especially the last few years before the war, restaurants and cafes that are built above the water were becoming very common. And they were magical. But also you have to know that Gaza was the most crowded city in the world. And just like it had the beautiful parts, there were also other parts that weren't as beautiful: unemployment and poverty were high. The camps were very crowded and the houses very small. Most university graduates who had bachelors and even masters degrees had to do anything for [a] living, like driving taxis and selling chips and chocolates at a mini market in front of their homes. But everyone was getting by. No one was entirely unable to get a higher education. No kids were out of school. And the city was alive. The markets and restaurants would be open even past midnight. Especially on special occasions like Eid or New Years Eve. In conclusion, it had its problems but it was a beautiful city. It was home.” 

Today, Marwa is a gifted medical student, largely as a product of her intrigue in science and an above average grasp of it. Her natural intellect earned her the nickname of ‘little doctor’ from aunties and uncles, dating as far back as her memory can reach. Matched with an unwavering determination, this would later translate into other above average achievements. For instance, receiving full marks on an anatomy exam, which earned her an invitation from her professor to watch an open heart surgery. 

But there is also a more ominous catalyst for Marwa’s ambition to become a doctor - something at once deeply personal, yet equally symptomatic of the oppression shared by her entire nation. Marwa had a cousin named Shahed, born with a heart condition that required her to use a

pacemaker which needed recharging every 6 months. Many reading this will already know that, for over 17 years, Israel has overtly suffocated Gaza from both the rest of Palestine, and the world. One of their preferred arms of inhumanity has been a medical blockade, constraining thousands upon thousands from accessing essential care (Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor, n.d.). Shahed was one of those thousands. One day, she fainted, and despite being rushed to the hospital, the doctors were unequipped to help her. She passed away at 12 years old. And so, in addition to her passion and unlearnable determination, Marwa’s studies are an act of solidarity with her people and her family, a commitment to the struggle to which they have been subjected - a vow to bring about the right to life her cousin was denied. 

“I always knew I wanted to help people.” 

In keeping with the remarkable resilience displayed by Palestinians throughout time, such adversities did not define Marwa’s upbringing. Spells of peace and normality meant that when she wasn’t studying, she enjoyed filling her time reading, writing and drawing. Or with poetry or swimming. And rather unsurprisingly, an exceptional knack found its way into most of these domains.

Illustration by Marwa Abuaita

“I love cats… My cat's name was Sukkar which is Arabic for sugar.  I called her Sukkar because she was as white and sweet as sugar.” 

Nonetheless, Shahed’s story could never be forgotten. Not only because of its permanent emotional grip, but also because it served as a heartbreaking symbol of the denial to freedom which generations of Marwa’s family - and all those of common culture - have endured. On the 10th of October, 2024, that denial would clamp down on Marwa’s home with a more brutal force than ever before. It began with the cries of a neighbour in the morning, repeating an order he had

received from the military to ‘evacuate’. Chaos and confusion ensued. As her brothers rushed through the block in an effort to understand what was going on, Marwa searched in anguish for Sukkar, who was hiding from the piercing sounds of detonating bombs. After finding her and regathering as a family, they fled: 

“We had prepared backpacks for evacuation, but if we knew we'd never get to go home again we would have taken more things. We left running, some of us barefoot, to my grandparents house.” 

They ran through rapid rivers of panic. The sheer volume of bodies separated the family, producing a wicked uncertainty which Marwa recalled as one of the most fearsome moments of all. With no other choice than to persevere, they eventually found one another physically unharmed at her Grandparents'. There they spent the night, before once again awaking to commands to leave. Distraught, disorientated, and propelled by fear, Marwa and her family were forced to flee once more, this time to her Uncle’s. On their way, they passed through what used to be the busiest street in Jabaliya, Marwa’s birthplace. With an overwhelming nostalgia, her memory of this street resurfaced: 

A familiar buzzing of people and colour. Smells that pinpoint spiritually as much as they do physically. Perhaps a sense of overstimulation, though more potent, one of belonging. And at its joyous epicenter, the place where she would go to buy her favourite ice cream. 

Except, what her eyes revealed told the beginning of a new story. The first in a series of unforgivable crimes: a massacre had rendered the entire street unrecognisable, destruction the likes of which she had never before seen. In that moment, Marwa's powerful perception manifested as a harrowing premonition: 

"I knew when I saw that street, I knew deep down every street in Gaza was going to look like that." 

End of Part 1. Marwa’s story will be continued in the next entry of ‘Our Homes’ (28/03/25).

Thank you for reading. If you have any comments, questions, or even someone you think might be interested in an interview, feel free to get in touch. Also, below is information on how to reach out to Marwa: 

Email: sebelder03@gmail.com | Instagram: @seb.elder 

Marwa (Instagram): @marwa_3eta