Asma Elkaldi was up early in the morning praying. It was a Saturday. Light streamed through the windows of her apartment north of Gaza.
Then there was the sound of rockets and everything was burning. Elkaldi and her husband fled with only a laptop and important documents.
Then, “with no notice the whole building was leveled to the ground,” she says from southwest Sydney where she now lives. “Some of our neighbors were killed.”
Elkaldi has been in Australia since November.
“I still feel it very clearly,” he says this week, nearly a year after leaving his homeland. “There's this kind of shock in my body, and I feel like there's going to be an explosion at any moment.”
Being in Sydney, he says, is sometimes “more painful than being in Gaza”. There, at least, “you watch the genocide with your family or friends … you know they are safe”.
“When you're in another country, another continent, your mind can play tricks on you, your worries can exaggerate or drive you crazy.”
The International Court of Justice said it was “plausible” that Israel violated the Genocide Convention. The Israeli government maintains its military operations were a legitimate response to the October 7, 2023, attacks by Hamas and has dismissed allegations of genocide as “false” and “covert”.
Militants killed about 1,200 people in Israel, mostly civilians, on October 7. Half of the 250 people abducted by Hamas that day were released during a short-lived ceasefire in November, and half of the rest are presumed dead.
More than 41,000 people have been killed in Gaza since Israel's military offensive began, according to local health officials, most of them civilians. About 2 million Palestinians have been displaced by the UN.
'I feel like I've left them all behind'
Elcaldi first moved to Sydney in April 2023 on a scholarship to study a Masters in Public Policy at the University of Sydney.
He visited Gaza in August last year and planned to return to Sydney in early 2024 – “but the war happened”.
She and her husband fled to Rafah after a week. Separately, his family fled their home in northern Gaza after six weeks.
“Thank God they were able to do it,” says Elkaldi. “They were running through the streets [with] Gunshots over their heads.
In November, “Lucky” was expelled by Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs. But her husband's name is not in the list.
“The moment I set my foot off the Rafah Crossing, I started tearing my heart out,” says Elkaldi.
“I feel like I left them all and saved myself. I felt so guilty and ashamed and kept crying until I got to the hotel at the Cairo airport.
'Lost my appetite for life'
Elkaldi, who is on a student visa, has now returned to his studies. And her husband has arrived in Sydney.
She cleans the house, prepares lunch and studies. Al Jazeera is always on TV and he stays up late at night to watch it with his family.
“We are safe, but our families have returned to Gaza. We have no relief.”
His mother and two siblings were deported to Turkey, but his father was stuck in Gaza with his aunts, uncles, cousins and in-laws.
“Sometimes the connection is so bad that I can't hold him,” Elkaldi says of his father.
“God forbid, I fear he is in danger. We cannot be at peace, we cannot live normally. We cannot be blind and live our lives.
Elcaldi said it was painful to see “something that no longer exists”.
“I have a lot of flashbacks at very random times,” she says. “There is an emptiness within you that cannot be filled. When my people weren't there, I didn't feel the energy to socialize on the streets or see people living normally. Some days I don't even have the strength to get out of bed. I feel like I've lost my appetite for life.
For Nesma Khalil al-Qazender, an architectural engineer in Gaza, fleeing was confusing and scary.
“None of us knew what it was, what had happened to us or what was going to happen next,” he says.
She fled with her husband and two daughters, aged three and five, from their home in Gaza City to relatives' homes, to a shelter in Khan Younis and then to Rafah. They left for Cairo a week before the border crossing was closed.
“My house was burned, then bombed and my parents' and my in-laws' houses were destroyed,” says Khalil al-Kazender from Sydney, where he now lives on a bridging visa.
“Every day was worse than the last, and every day we faced the possibility of losing our lives.”
Khalil Al-Kazender and his family arrived in Australia in June 2024.
She is learning English and runs a business selling Palestinian handlooms. She says keeping busy helps her mental health. One day, she hopes to work as an architectural engineer again.
“I am grateful to Australia for opening its doors and embracing us in these difficult circumstances,” says Khalil Al-Kassender.
“However, my feelings are very painful as I see my country and my family going through the worst times from here.”
After a year of war, Khalil al-Qazender says he “wants to return home and find safety today, not tomorrow”.
“I want to regain that sense of security that is impossible when you are away from your homeland, your home, your family, your friends and your work.”
'Everyone here is doing their best'
The burden of war falls squarely on the shoulders of Palestinians and the diaspora community who have recently arrived in Australia.
Palestinian Australian lawyer and community leader in Sydney, Ramia Sultan, is at a loss for words to describe how her community has coped over the past 12 months.
Most of the migrants are first- and second-generation immigrants with children born in Australia but with close ties to Palestine.
They could see Israel's continued bombing of Gaza.
“The drain, the guilt, the frustration, the anger … the frustration is so deep,” he says.
“We get messages and calls, sometimes hourly, from relatives and family friends desperate for help. Everyone here is doing their best amid tough restrictions, but it has taken its toll.
Guilt, says Sultan, defines emotion. “From the moment we open our eyes to the moment we fall asleep, we ask, 'Why us?' Why can I wake up in a comfortable and safe environment when my loved ones can't? Guilt eats society alive.
'Shock on many levels'
Palestinian immigrants in Australia often skip mainstream news for updates, Sultan says.
Instead, they watch raw video sent directly from Gaza or shared in WhatsApp groups. They see death and destruction as it happens.
Author and academic Randa Abdel-Battah says Palestinians in Australia see loved ones as “dehumanised”, which has mobilized the community.
“We realized that the humanity of the Palestinians was complete,” he says.
Anger at the Australian government's response to the conflict has sparked weekly protests in Sydney and Melbourne.
Protests try to shut them down The ongoing protests have allowed communities to express their frustration and show solidarity, Abdel-Battah says.
But people are shocked by seeing war so closely – often out of a sense of duty.
“To see the normalization of this scene of horror and carnage is completely and utterly shocking,” says Abdel-Batta.
“It has been shocking on so many levels, it has changed how people interact at work, in their social circles and in their communities.
“We see children being buried during our lunch break and then expect to continue our work day as if it's all normal – or it never happened. Why doesn't the world stop watching this?' We keep asking ourselves that.
'They may pitch their tents in the ruins of their houses'
Elkaldi says last year is reminiscent of 1948 “when all the land was stolen and people could not go back to their homes”.
The Palestinians call it the flight, the exodus and the exodus of their disaster – the Nakba.
Elkaldi says, however, that the battle was far worse. “Scale of Destruction, Type of Weapons and Size of Bombs – Intensity.”
She hopes to return to Gaza one day, but fears that living in the north will be impossible.
“I believe my suspicions are wrong, because … the 1.5 million people living in the smallest part of the South are subhuman. Even if these people perish, they must return to their homes.
“They can build their tents in the ruins of their houses, but at least they are [would get] Return to the land.”
Khalil al-Kassender says: “My hope is that I can return to my homeland when it is safe and rebuilt … even if it means returning to any home, family and friends.”
