The first moment I encountered Palestinians in Egypt who had been forced to flee Gaza, I felt a heaviness inside me. This feeling was not only about the devastation caused by war; it was a much deeper, much more human sense of being trapped. From what they told me, from their eyes and their silences, I saw something clearly: These people were not only victims of war; they had also been made invisible in the place where they had sought refuge.

A large number of Palestinians who crossed from Gaza into Egypt could not obtain residency permits, had no right to work, and could not even obtain visas to travel to another country. In other words, even though they had escaped the place they fled from, they were living in another open-air prison. The cruelty of war was already unbearable; but what was even more painful was the indifference they encountered in the country where they sought refuge. As I walked through neighborhoods and communities in Egypt, what affected me most was how normalized this indifference had become. In one neighborhood, I saw people struggling with hunger and uncertainty, while just a few streets away, people living in luxury buildings continued their lives without the slightest concern. Poverty and deprivation were at their lowest point, while wealth was at its extreme, and there seemed to be no bridge of conscience between these two extremes. This is exactly why I described the Egyptian people as “indifferent.” In addition, one of the strongest impressions I had of the Egyptian people was a sense of purposelessness and meaninglessness. I could not see a strong stance rooted in their own identity, culture, or cause. In many of the homes I entered, I expected to see something distinctly Egyptian, but instead I encountered Christmas and New Year decorations. There was a sense of admiration for the West, of imitating it, almost as if trying to please those who were more powerful. It gave me the impression of a life that had been emptied of its meaning, a life that no longer knew where it belonged.

The Palestinians who came from Gaza, however, were the exact opposite. Despite everything, they had managed to remain true to themselves; they were a people with purpose and hope. In every home we entered, there were maps of Palestine, Palestinian-themed objects, and decorations on the walls. These people did not hide who they were; on the contrary, they proclaimed their identity in every corner. It was a quiet yet powerful consciousness. They carried themselves with dignity and had a clear sense of identity.

Most of the homes were occupied by women because their husbands had either been killed in the war or had been forced to remain in Gaza. Despite this, these women were searching for ways to hold on to life. They were trying to make a living through their own work, making keychains and knitted bags. In one home, there was a woman who had lost both of her legs; despite this, there was hope on her face, and she was smiling. In another home, there was another woman who had lost loved ones… But once again, the same thing: a desire to live, resilience, and hope. Another thing I noticed while distributing aid was the pride of the Palestinians. Despite their immense needs, there was even a sense of dignity in accepting assistance. The men in particular carried a dignity that I will never forget for the rest of my life. I knew they would struggle without that assistance; but if they were not truly in need, they would not accept it simply because of their pride. One of the moments I will never forget was meeting an elderly woman. She had lost her eyesight as a result of the bombings and had difficulty walking. I approached her and greeted her; she heard me but could not see me. She was standing there, waiting for someone to come and take her away… The smile on her face was still there despite everything she had endured. She smiled toward the direction of the voice she heard. At that moment, I did not know what to do; I simply watched. That smile was engraved in my mind. After witnessing all of this, I looked at my own life. I thought about my own troubles and realized something: The things I considered “problems” were actually so small. I understood how much we, as people of faith living in relative prosperity, should be grateful. But when I returned home, I was confronted with another sense of absence: In my own home, there was almost nothing reminding me of my own land, my cause, or my struggle. Yet in the home of a Palestinian from Gaza, even the smallest corner carried a trace of their homeland. Palestinians in Egypt are living amid confinement and uncertainty; yet despite all of this, they remain hopeful. With patience and dignity, they wait for a helping hand to reach them. Although there are no clear official figures, it is known that the number of Palestinians who have crossed from Gaza into Egypt is in the tens of thousands. Most are living under temporary status, without security or certainty, trying to build a life.

So, what can concretely be done? It is not enough simply to feel sorry for these people. Their voices need to be amplified internationally, pressure needs to be applied for permanent residency and the right to work, and they need not only temporary aid but also sustainable means of livelihood. Unless opportunities are created for education, psychological support, and economic activity, this sense of confinement will continue. The reason I am writing this is not simply to describe what I witnessed. It is also to ask myself and everyone reading this a question: How deeply are we confronting our own identity, our cause, and our humanity?

In this story stretching from Gaza to Egypt, the thing I witnessed most was this: People who had lost everything had not lost their dignity. And perhaps this is exactly where true hope remained.