We are the Hamdouna family: father Yaser, mother Taghreed, twin children Mohamad and Sali, and our youngest daughter Sara.
We come from Gaza, but our story begins long before that. It’s a story of generations in motion constantly searching for a place to take root, again and again.
Yaser
I am Yaser. My parents fled Palestine in 1965. They married in Jordan and worked for the Red Cross, which eventually brought them to Syria. I was born there, lived as a child in Syria, and later in Lebanon. In 1982, Israel invaded Lebanon. War again. My family fled to Egypt.
There, I studied at university, became a medical laboratory technician, and worked in a Palestinian hospital. In 1994, we returned to Gaza. I worked at the central hospital laboratory and pursued a master’s degree in Public Health. In 1997, I married Taghreed. Her mother was a cousin of my father. We found each other in Gaza.
Taghreed
I am Taghreed. My parents are also Palestinian, but I grew up in Saudi Arabia. That’s where I earned my high school diploma. We returned to Gaza in 1994, where I studied office management and started working for a company.
Yaser and I got married. We built a life, a home, in Tel el Hawa, near the sea. We had three children.
Gaza was our home, with everything that comes with it: busy streets, sun over the water, family on every floor of our building. Laughter, worries, hope — and war.
Mohamad
I am Mohamad, 22 years old. I studied ICT for a year and then worked at a computer shop, repairing laptops.
My life in Gaza? It was beautiful. I had many friends, played football every week, and went swimming in the sea on Fridays. I dreamed of becoming a professional footballer — which was impossible, but dreams are necessary.
Sali en Sara
We are Sali and Sara. Gaza was full of life for us. Cousins we grew up with in the same house, each family on a different floor. We knew all our neighbors. Sometimes we rented a nearby swimming pool together. That was happiness.
But Gaza also meant fear and war .
I (Sara) was four when I experienced my first war. I still remember it: the sirens, the shaking walls...
Taghreed
Fear slowly crept into our lives. Not only the bombs, but the hopelessness. We could study, but there were no jobs. No future for our children.
In 2019, Yaser left with a visa for a medical conference in Italy. From there, he applied for asylum in Belgium. It took two years before he received his ID card. Two years of waiting and hoping. Then we were able to join him. We now live in Ghent.
I’m grateful for the safety, for the kindness of the people. But I feel empty. My family is still in Gaza. This war is different. It is merciless.
I’m grateful for the safety, for the kindness of the people. But I feel empty. My family is still in Gaza. This war is different. It is merciless.
I sleep poorly. I hardly eat. My stomach rebels with worry. I go to the doctor every week, but the answer is always: stress. Maybe I need to find volunteer work. Something to distract me from the worry.
Mohamad, Sali & Sara
We are trying to build a future here.
I (Mohamad) want to study ICT and join a football team.
I (Sali) dream of becoming a social worker, to one day help refugees like I once was.
I (Sara) go to the OKAN school in Ghent. I learn fast and I have friends. But I miss my family.
Yaser
We’ve now been living together in Ghent for almost three years. I work at the university through the OCMW’s Article 60 program, in the biochemistry lab. The work gives me structure, a rhythm, and I have good colleagues.
But my heart? It’s scattered: partly in Gaza, partly with my wife and children, partly with the people we left behind along the way.
We are grateful. But we are also tired.
What do we hope for? A good life. Peace. And above all, that our family stays safe.