I can’t remember how early I woke up the day I left Gaza. It was still slightly dark when I said my farewells to my parents and brothers and sisters. It’s been a little over four years since that morning and I haven’t been back to Gaza since.
Before I left, I’d only been on short trips to Egypt and Saudi Arabia. I had never been on a plane.
It took me nearly a whole day of waiting on the Egyptian side of the border before a group of us were stacked into a taxi and bound for Al Arish Airport, where a stocky Jordanian pilot was waiting at the airport’s gate for the last batch of passengers.
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