(Photo by Jaber Jehad Badwan via Wikimedia Commons/CC BY-SA 4.0)
Portions of the included interview have been edited for brevity and clarity.
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“I didn’t survive; I crossed with new terror.”
This was how Reham Alaloul described leaving Gaza in the early days of the genocide. A young Palestinian woman, Reham, who was about to complete her master’s degree in Development Economics at the Islamic University of Gaza, had envisioned a prosperous future and a career path in her country, particularly in the realm of women’s empowerment. But these dreams were shattered, forcing her to flee to Canada in a desperate attempt to survive.
Yet, that survival came at a high cost. While physically safe in Canada, Reham lives in a state of emotional limbo, being unable to obtain her academic degree, separated from her family, and trying to continue her work while grieving her country’s destruction.
More than 650 days after leaving, the genocide is still ongoing, people in Gaza starve to death, and Reham is yet to find a sense of relief. In an interview with Spheres of Influence, she spoke about displacement and survivor’s guilt, the weight of what she left behind, and her hope for a better tomorrow.
Journey and Displacement
Can you tell me about when and how you arrived in Canada from Gaza?
I arrived in Canada about a month after the genocide began in Gaza. I will never forget the moment I landed, when an airport officer looked at me with astonishment and said, as if I had come from another world, “You are a sacred soul.” He was amazed that I had survived from one of the bloodiest and most sealed-off places on earth. His words, meant to give me strength and safety, felt like a dagger piercing my side. What kind of sanctity is this, when I left behind everything that resembled me and everyone I loved?
What circumstances led to your leaving? Was it something planned or sudden?
I recall those days when I lived in a state of confusion, unable to make decisions. Then suddenly, in just one night, I made up my mind to travel. I decided to go, leaving behind my family, my clothes, my belongings, and even a part of myself. I moved from northern Gaza to its south in about 60 minutes, while the sky rained fire above me.
There was no prayer I didn’t say, no charm I didn’t cling to, as I begged God to save me from the shelling coming from all directions. Women and children were displaced in the streets, carrying their children and walking on paths leading only to more fear, and I was one of them.
I trembled with fear at the Rafah crossing, haunted by the thought that I might not be allowed to pass into Egypt and that I would be sent back north again. In that moment, I saw myself returning wrapped in a shroud, not as a living body. I resisted the idea of death and the return to destruction filling the streets, to children’s screams, torn men’s bodies, and bodies left without farewells.
My fear was not only of returning but also of the immense oppression imposed on an entire people in a small geographic area, imprisoned and sentenced to die forcibly, without choice or survival. I don’t know how God’s will overcame my fear at that moment, but I crossed. I found myself on the Egyptian side, and only there could I catch half a breath, half a life. For a moment, I was freed from the idea of death that had trapped my mind.
Did that fear end when you crossed to the Egyptian side of the Rafah crossing?
The fear didn’t end, but it took another form: How could I leave my family? How did I survive alone? What had I done? The thoughts tore me apart; a consuming guilt overwhelmed me. Then came the whispers: “The Egyptian side may be bombed now. The place must be evacuated immediately.”
I left toward the departure gate to Cairo, and no sooner had I stepped forward than the bombing fell behind me. I saw the sand scatter, screams filling the air in hysteria, as if death was chasing me, unwilling to let me go. Oh God… it was a galaxy of terror. I didn’t survive; I crossed with new terror.
I arrived in Cairo on Thanksgiving Day, October 9, 2023. The world was celebrating, giving thanks, exchanging warm wishes… and I was there, trembling, unable to calm down or sleep, unable to process what I had been through. I spent ten days trying to gather my scattered self, trying to collect what remained of me, and planning my steps to travel to Canada, where my brother lives. It was my last attempt to survive… to survive to safety, even though every day more of it slipped away from me than the day before.
Interrupted Education and Future Uncertainty
You completed your master’s degree in Gaza, but were not able to obtain your certificate. What happened?
I was only minutes away from obtaining my master’s degree, but the genocide in Gaza turned those minutes into years of interruption. I was supposed to defend my thesis on October 18th and then start a new phase of life. Instead, universities were bombed and closed, roads were blocked, and everything froze overnight. I had to leave suddenly as the only family member with an exit visa.
I was not just a victim, I had earned a place in the Erasmus+ student exchange program and studied in Germany and Spain, proudly representing my country and returning with hope for a better future. But repeated wars never allowed us to complete our dreams. When I arrived in Canada, I was broken and could not even ask my professor, now a refugee himself, for help. I am still trying to find a way to defend my thesis, but it remains uncertain.
How does it feel to have worked so hard, and now be cut off from that part of your life?
It feels like being uprooted overnight, forced to start from zero after years of effort and dreams. It’s a deep, unique kind of brokenness to see everything you built torn away and to find yourself starting again in a place that does not see or value who you were. What hurts more is having to begin again while knowing that every moment brings news of more loss back home in Gaza.
I feel erased, as if I have to introduce myself as someone new when I carry a long, hard road inside me. It is painful to watch my roots and achievements ignored just because I come from a land marked by war. But despite this wound, I resist. I did not survive to disappear or hide where I come from. I am a Palestinian woman. I bend but I do not break. I will rebuild, because I know I deserve to.
Do you feel like you are able to plan for your future here, or is it difficult to move forward?
At one point, it felt as though I had lost the ability to feel. Nothing touched me… no past, no future. But today, Canada feels like a piece of peace, a new homeland embracing those who were displaced by devastation and despair.
I’m beginning to feel that I can build a beautiful future here, a safe future… but it feels incomplete. It is missing my family, my land, and all the little details I once took for granted. These details have now become the source of my deepest sorrow. And yet, here in Canada, I have found people, kind Canadians, who open their hearts to Palestine, to Gaza, to me. Their genuine warmth brings back a sense of calm. It sparks a small light of hope in my heart just enough to keep me moving forward, every single day.
Family, Communication, and Emotional Burden
Are you in contact with your family still in Gaza? What is communication like?
My family in Gaza consists of 23 people across four homes, some in the center, others in the north. Though physically close, they’ve become distant, losing contact like I have with them. Sometimes I catch a voice, but it brings no news because no one knows what happened to the others. When we speak, the call often drops suddenly, cutting off connection. Sometimes, I hear overlapping voices of others on the line or static, making it hard to understand. We sigh, frustrated and helpless.
I try messaging on WhatsApp, but my brother must walk long distances to find the internet, and power outages leave phones dead for days. Weeks pass in silence. Staying connected feels like holding a fragile thread, always on the edge of breaking. Every attempt to reach them carries the fear that this fragile link may have already snapped, leaving us isolated in separate corners of the world.
What is it like to carry the worry and grief for your family while trying to adapt to life in Canada?
Carrying worry and grief for my family while adapting to life in Canada is incredibly hard. I live here in relative safety, but my family remains in Gaza, trapped in the heart of war. I feel guilty for surviving sleeping warm and eating enough while they lack basic needs. I also feel powerless, unable to truly help them. My mind is torn between two places; physically in Canada, but my soul is in Gaza.
Every attempt to focus, work, or smile is met by sudden sadness. When I try to call my family, the connection often drops, and network interference brings overlapping voices and static, making communication confusing and painful. Sometimes, calls cut off abruptly with no warning. This fragile link reflects the fragile balance in my life, like walking a tightrope between holding on and falling apart. My survival is both a burden and a form of resistance, but it never feels easy.
Women’s Empowerment Work in a New Context
You have done work related to women’s empowerment. What does that work mean to you now, in this new context?
Empowering women has always been more than a job to me; it is part of who I am. In Gaza, I witnessed the harsh reality women face under siege: mothers raising children without electricity or clean water, young women denied education and jobs, and many silenced by a society that restricts them while bombs fall around them. Despite this, women remain the backbone of their communities; they teach, heal, and protect every day.
Working closely with women in Gaza, I saw how support can help them reclaim their voices and dignity. Now in Canada, my responsibility feels even greater. The stories of Gaza’s women risk being forgotten, so I carry their voices with me. Empowering women means preserving their memory, demanding justice, and reshaping the narrative not as victims, but as creators of life and hope amid destruction.
Are you finding space in Canada to continue that work or reflect on it? What are the challenges?
When I arrived in Canada, my main focus was survival, not continuing my work. Back in Gaza, I worked in women’s support, helping women find strength despite war, loss, and hardship. I witnessed their resilient mothers caring for families without basic needs, young women creating hope amid destruction.
Here, I’m slowly finding space to reflect and share their stories. Living in exile is challenging as, in many cases, language is a barrier and adapting to a new culture takes time. But the hardest part is living with two hearts: one broken in Gaza, the other trying to grow here.
Still, I am determined to keep going. I carry the voices of Gaza’s women with me and want to create spaces where their stories are heard and valued. My work here is about honouring their strength and making sure the world does not forget their struggles and hopes.
Navigating Systems and Support in Canada
Have you tried accessing support (such as school, employment, and settlement services) since arriving? What has that been like?
Since arriving in Canada, I have been trying to access support. Getting a work permit was an important step that helped me begin settling. However, the challenges are many. Life here is very different from what I was used to, requiring me to build new relationships and understand a new labour market. This takes time and effort.
Regarding education, I cannot enroll until my paperwork is complete and I receive permanent residency. This delay is difficult because studying is essential for my future plans.
Despite these obstacles, I am learning and adapting slowly. Step by step, I am rebuilding my life with caution and hope. I believe that, with time, opportunities will open for me here. My journey is challenging, but I am determined to keep moving forward.
How do you feel when people around you do not know — or do not ask — about what is happening in Gaza?
I feel a deep sadness and a suffocating loneliness. Sometimes I look around and wonder, what has happened to humanity? How can the world remain silent while children are slaughtered and newborns are born dead or deformed from widespread starvation?
What is even harder is this close silence when even those closest to me do not ask about my condition or the condition of my country. This coldness makes me feel abandoned, as if my suffering is unseen and unimportant.
I watch the world celebrate the most violent Hollywood movies and applaud imaginary heroes, while the real heroes are killed in the shadows, without mention or recognition.
All this silence and denial make me feel that we are living through one of the darkest chapters in history, where voices are silenced, hope is extinguished, and our humanity is forgotten.
Resilience, Grief, and Hope
Where do you find strength to continue, even while grieving?
I feel that within the heart of every Gazan lies a phoenix, burning through every trial but never perishing. From beneath the ashes, from among the rubble, through loss and silence, we rise. This bird is not merely a mythical symbol; it is a living representation of our resilience, our patience, and a hidden strength that dwells within us all.
Despite the distance and the heavy sorrow, I find strength in my hope, my hope to one day see my mother’s and my siblings’ faces revive me, to hear their voices, to return together and live whatever remains of life, even if only for a warm moment.
My heart rises each time because I refuse to let sorrow be the end of my story. I believe that God does not abandon us and that from this fire we endure, new life will be born, just as the phoenix is reborn.
What would meaningful support look like from others in Canada, including peers, schools, organizations?
I feel that meaningful support for me and everyone who shares my experience is to help our families in Gaza with all we can, to stand by them in their struggle to survive and hold on to hope. They need to breathe clean air, drink pure water, and live in safe homes filled with comfort and peace. Their leaving Gaza is not merely an escape from pain but a victory for humanity as a whole and a chance to erase from their memories the words genocide, famine, death, amputation, disease, and epidemics… a real opportunity for life. This temporary period is a chance to rebuild their spirit and strength so they can return to their land that they long for. We too need to see them living with dignity and safety, far from the pain and suffering no human soul deserves.
Edited by Isaac Code
