Recently, my wife, who is of Greek origin, and my children have become increasingly curious about Gaza and Palestine. Although I have always spoken to them about my beloved city—about my family, my school, my old neighborhood and its familiar details, and memories woven with both joy and pain—I felt that they had never fully understood what Gaza truly means to me.

So I promised them that one day we would visit my hometown, Gaza, so they could experience it for themselves. Gaza touches the soul of everyone who visits, captures the heart of anyone who breathes in the gentle breeze of its sea, and lingers in the mind of all who have known it, even when its familiar features have changed.

Having been away from the city for many years, I reached out to my aunt, Um Amer, the mother of my childhood friend Mohammad, who grew up in the same neighborhood as I did. She always treated me as one of her own sons, perhaps even spoiling me with a little extra love and care.

With a voice filled with longing, she told me, “Come back, my son, with your wife and children. Your homeland will always embrace you more warmly than anywhere else in the world.” Then, with determination, she added, “I vow that I will walk with you through all of Gaza on foot.”

Despite her advancing age and the pain in her feet, my aunt Um Amer, like the Palestine sunbird, refuses to leave Gaza and remains connected to it with every sense of her being.

She sighed and said, “Ah, Gaza, my son… it was the most beautiful place,” before beginning to tell me about the city’s history. Old Gaza was once a thriving commercial center and an important stop along the caravan routes between Egypt and the Levant. Its location made it a vital link between different regions of the ancient world.

Many civilizations passed through Gaza and left their traces behind, from the Canaanites, Assyrians, and Babylonians to the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, and early Islamic civilizations. Over the centuries, the city was known by different names and appeared on the Madaba Mosaic Map as a large city with prominent streets and landmarks. Gaza is also known as the birthplace of Imam al-Shafi‘i, and during the Ottoman period it continued to serve as an important commercial center along the route connecting Palestine, Egypt, and the Arabian Peninsula.

Um Amer then began planning our visit as though we were arriving the very next day. She said our first stop would be the family’s land, where she would prepare maftoul for us with a spicy stew in the traditional Gazan style. Then she said proudly, “I’m sure you miss our food. Is there anything quite like it?”

She told me about their land, which was known for producing citrus fruits and strawberries, and about the care she and her husband, Abu Amer, devoted to it. To them, the land was like one of their children—perhaps even more precious.

The land of Gaza is like a grieving mother, silently weeping for her children, carrying the weight of their pain, and clinging to them as roots cling to the soil, refusing to be separated from them despite her wounds.

From the land, Um Amer would take us to the beach, where we would enjoy fresh seafood while breathing in the Mediterranean breeze and listening to the seagulls soaring overhead. Um Amer said enthusiastically, “No matter how many seas you visit, there is nothing like the sea of Gaza.”

The sea of Gaza is like an open horizon stretching endlessly into the distance, embracing the city like a mother’s wide-open arms, with no boundary but the sky.

Afterward, we would visit the old market, where Gaza was known for a variety of traditional crafts and industries, including handwoven carpets, bamboo furniture, pottery, colored glass, and goldsmithing. Um Amer spoke of these crafts with pride, as though recalling the sounds of the old markets and the movement of people through their narrow streets.

The following morning, Um Amer would take us on a journey through some of Gaza’s historic landmarks, each telling a different part of the city’s story. We would begin with the Great Mosque, also known as the Omari Mosque, one of the most prominent landmarks of old Gaza. We would then walk through the Zeitoun neighborhood to see the Church of Saint Porphyrius and the Katib al-Wilaya Mosque, where the mosque’s minaret and the church’s cross stand side by side, reflecting the city’s rich historical and cultural diversity.

From there, we would continue to the al-Daraj neighborhood, one of Gaza’s oldest quarters, where the Sayed al-Hashim Mosque is located. It is traditionally believed that Hashim ibn Abd Manaf, the great-grandfather of the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), was buried there, which is why the city came to be known as “Gaza of Hashim.”

Um Amer’s stories did not end there. She spoke of Gaza’s ancient ports, archaeological tells, and historic sites, and of the traces left by the many civilizations that had passed through the city. Yet one place was different. From the tone of her voice, it was clear that it held a special place in her heart: Tell Umm Amer, also known as the Monastery of Saint Hilarion.

She told me that she used to visit the site often and that it held a special place in her memory. So special, in fact, that she named her son “Amer” after the tell, and from then on became known as Umm Amer—the mother of Amer. In this way, the name of the place became intertwined with her own name and her family’s story, creating a beautiful connection between people and place.

The site is one of Gaza’s important historical landmarks and has been inscribed on the World Heritage List. It contains the remains of a monastery, churches, a burial area, and colorful mosaic floors depicting plants and animals.

The name Tell Um Amer is also associated with a local story about a woman named Um Amer who would graze her sheep on the hill with her dog, remaining there from the early morning until sunset. Over the centuries, the site witnessed different historical periods, becoming a guardian of Gaza’s history and memory—an open book of history, telling future generations the story of the place and of those who once passed through it.

As I listened to Um Amer, I realized that our journey would not simply be a visit to ancient sites. It would be a journey through layers of stories, where every street, piece of land, and stone carries something of the city’s memory. To her, Gaza is not a collection of archaeological landmarks. It is land and sea, homes and food, crafts and stories, and memories passed from one generation to the next.

At that moment, I realized that the journey I had promised my children would be more than a visit to my birthplace. It would be a journey into a part of their own identity and family history. And Um Amer would be our guide, telling them about Gaza as she knew it, lived it, and loved it.

Gaza is like the phoenix, rising time and again from beneath the rubble and destruction, returning to life once more. Here, the phoenix is more than an image of rising after devastation; it symbolizes the city’s enduring ability to survive and renew itself, and a memory that refuses to disappear, no matter how much the face of the city may change.

Ah, Gaza, how magnificent you are!