“I’m 89 and I saw my homeland rebuilt before – but now I don’t believe Gaza has a future”

“I rode away on a camel with my grandmother, along a sandy road, and I started to cry.”
That is how Ayish Younis describes the worst day of his life – even though it happened 77 years ago and he has endured many horrors since then.

It was 1948, during the first Arab–Israeli war, and Ayish was only twelve. He, along with his extended family, fled their village of Barbara—once celebrated for its grapes, wheat, corn and barley—in what had then been British-ruled Palestine.
“We were terrified for our lives,” Ayish says. “We had no means on our own to fight the Jews, so we all began leaving.”

A memory of flight and loss

As he rode away on the camel, clutching his grandmother’s hand, the landscape behind them drifted into the past. The village that once flourished under the vines and fields of Barbara was left behind, along with the security of home and community. The journey marked not just the loss of a dwelling, but of a way of life.

From home-village to displaced childhood

His childhood innocence was replaced that day by the trauma of displacement: a boy becoming a refugee, witnessing his family leave everything they knew. Barbara had sustained generations; it was a centre of agriculture and community. But in the chaos of war, such familiar anchors were torn away.

Living through decades of conflict

Now 89, Ayish has seen his homeland rebuilt before—once after upheaval—but when he looks at the territory of Gaza today, he does not believe it has a future. The repeated destruction, blockade, dislocation and trauma have worn down hope. While people can rebuild villages, societies or homes, the scale and repetition of catastrophe in Gaza have made belief in a stable future hard to sustain.

Why he doubts Gaza’s future

His doubt is not born of pessimism alone—it reflects what many analysts describe: the physical devastation, economic collapse, blockade and competing forces of power all combine to create a near-insurmountable challenge.
For instance, a feature in Al Jazeera emphasizes how Palestinians in Gaza face “monumental challenges to rebuilding their homeland and lives”.
Likewise, the splitting of governance, the presence of war-traumatized children, and the near-total destruction of infrastructure deepen the skepticism.

A warning from history

Ayish’s story is a quiet warning: when a people are uprooted once, maybe they can rebuild. But when the cycle repeats, the meaning of “homeland” becomes eroded. Barbara was rebuilt and life resumed, in Ayish’s memory. But Gaza—after multiple wars, mass destruction, and political fragmentation—carries a different weight.

What next for Gaza?

If we take Ayish’s voice as one among many, what lessons can we draw? First, rebuilding physical structures is only one part. The rebuilding of trust, community, stability and future orientation is far harder. Second, even if walls rise again, the loss of memory, the trauma, the broken social fabric linger. Third, without a credible pathway forward—governance, economy, justice—the notion of “future” becomes fragile.

Conclusion

When an 89-year-old man says he no longer believes in the future of his homeland, we should listen. The story of Ayish Younis, of Barbara and of Gaza, reminds us that loss accumulates, hope erodes, and reconstruction goes far beyond brick and mortar. As debates continue about Gaza’s rebuilding, its governance and its place in history, the voices of those who lived through displacement offer a deeply human perspective on what “future” truly means.