A Palestinian journalist's helplessness in the face of Israel's latest expulsion order: "Where will we go if we have to leave Gaza?"

I left my house in the morning, as usual, to go to my job as a journalist. I walked quite a bit, but I didn't even notice because all I was thinking about was what the Israeli army had announced hours earlier: a new evacuation order affecting all of Gaza City , from east to west, and forcing all its inhabitants to move south, toward the so-called humanitarian zone of Khan Yunis. The Israeli army's statement is clear. A few cold, well-worded words can destroy the lives of a million people. I am one of them.

Everyone in the city is confused, lost, and irritable. There is no safe place or physical space available in this area, which Israel claims is humanitarian and safe. And most of the population cannot afford to relocate again. There is no money.

The Israeli army's statement is clear. A few cold, well-worded words can destroy the lives of a million people. I am one of them.

The news arrived while we were having breakfast. We froze, staring at each other. Again, the same fear, again, the same horror movie unfolding before our eyes: displacement, flight, life in a tent, the scorching sun in the summer, the stifling cold in the winter, and the rain pouring in from all sides. It all came flooding back to us in a matter of seconds.

Suddenly, my mother stood up and began gathering and packing our things. We told her not to do anything, to leave everything in its place. We don't know where to go. We don't know if there's a shelter with space, we don't have any relatives we can turn to, and we're not even sure we'll find an empty plot of land to pitch our tents. Thinking about all this left us frightened and bewildered. But we continued with our daily tasks.

At the end of May, I moved into my aunt's house in the Al Shati refugee camp, west of Gaza City. I'm from Jabalia, further north, and we had to leave because the Israeli army ordered us to leave. So, the seven members of my family have been displaced for five months now, and we never imagined we'd be forced to leave again.

It's very difficult to leave Gaza City, to which we are so connected, and which holds great symbolism for all its inhabitants. Leaving it is like leaving a loved one. It's very hard to leave your home behind.

The image of families carrying what little they could carry, with their eyes fixed on the walls of their houses, as if saying goodbye to their children, is painful and unforgettable.

All around us, there have been families who have accepted the army's orders and left. I've been able to speak with them, I've seen the sadness on their faces, and I've felt a silence more eloquent than any tears. Every step that took them away from Gaza City meant tearing a page from their lives. Here, the houses aren't stones, but stories, voices, laughter, and memories.

Leaving Gaza isn't just about leaving a home or a neighborhood. It feels like your soul is being ripped out. The image of families carrying the little they could carry, their eyes fixed on the walls of their homes, as if saying goodbye to their children, is painful and unforgettable. Women whisper to God, men bury their tears under a heavy blanket of silence, and children don't understand why the doors are closing behind them forever.

So I arrived today, Tuesday, at my workplace, a large tent where many journalists work , set up by the Palestinian Journalists Syndicate in the center of Gaza City. I've been working here for several months. Today, the only talk was whether we should leave or stay. And one question keeps coming back. "But where will we go if we have to leave Gaza?" I sigh and remain silent, because I don't know what to say and I have no words to express my pain.