From Gaza to Exile... I am Khaled, and this is what remains of me
I am Khaled Albardawil, born in Gaza in 1986, at the moment the First Intifada broke out. I was born to the rhythm of stones and struggle, in a city that has been under siege since my birth — to this very day. I was born to learn that living in my homeland is not a given right, but a daily struggle.
I grew up in a large and loving family, with five brothers, four sisters, and two caring parents. Our house in Gaza wasn’t big, but it was warm — filled with laughter, memories, and the scent of childhood. Every corner held a story, every wall a dream.
I earned a degree in Information Technology, followed by a bachelor’s in Business Administration. During my studies, I worked in construction during the day and as a sound technician and editor in the evenings. I worked hard to build myself and my future, even as everything around me collapsed. Later, I worked for one of the largest aid organizations in Gaza, where I grew to become the financial and administrative director. I helped orphans, the poor, and entire communities — people who suffered like I did.
After the 2014 war and increasing oppression, it became impossible to stay. The blockade, the closure of bank accounts, and the constant threat forced me to leave Gaza in 2015. I did not leave for luxury. I left to survive. .
I went to Austria, continued my master’s studies in Business Administration, but was not granted asylum there. In 2018, I arrived in Belgium — exhausted, but determined. The asylum procedure lasted three years and eight months — a time of uncertainty, displacement, waiting, and inner struggle. Still, I kept working, kept learning, kept hoping.
When I finally received my residence permit, I couldn’t truly feel happy.
How could I celebrate while my family still lives under occupation?
How could I enjoy silence while Gaza screams and no one listens?
I moved to Ghent to work, not knowing what this city would come to mean for me. I tried to learn Dutch, tried to integrate, but the pain of exile doesn’t simply fade. Exile is not a new life — it is a life with an open wound.
On New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2024, my life changed in a single second.
While people around the world were celebrating, the Israeli army bombed our family home
It was reduced to rubble, along with years of memories.
But the greatest loss was not the house itself.
My brother was killed in that attack.
He left without saying goodbye.
And since that day, I have never been the same.
My family became scattered.
Our photos lay beneath the rubble, just like our future.
What remained was fear, hunger, sorrow, and blood in the streets.
What I experienced — what thousands in Gaza experience — is not war.
It is a slow, systematic genocide.
Every time it rains, I hear bombs.
Every time I see a child laugh, I remember the children of Gaza.
Every time I eat, I think of the hungry back home.
Of myself as a child.