Rawan Tarazi

My name is Rawan Tarazi, and I am from Gaza. Life in Gaza had become unbearably cruel. As a Christian family, we always felt weak and vulnerable, but when the war began to intensify, our lives turned into an endless nightmare. Our house was destroyed in a sudden bombing, and that marked the end of everything we had. There was no time to think—everything happened so quickly that we couldn’t even grab the simplest things from our home. The walls crumbled, ceilings collapsed, and shards of glass flew everywhere. We were terrified, uncertain if we would live or die. The children were crying, and I could do nothing but hold them tightly and reassure them, saying, “We will be okay. We will be okay.”

We sought refuge in the church, which was the only place we could turn to for safety. But even there, safety was an illusion. The church was bombed, and we heard the screams of the wounded. Shrapnel filled the air as we hid, desperately trying to survive. All we could hope for was to live—to hold on to the beauty of life and avoid losing anyone. The dead lay all around us.

Homeless and without food, we watched children drinking what little water they could find on the ground as hunger gnawed at us. Fear consumed our minds. How could we continue to exist in a place surrounded by death and destruction? It felt as though God had abandoned us, yet we had no choice but to stay. The church, despite becoming a place of death and tragedy, remained our only refuge.

Leaving Gaza was one of the hardest decisions I have ever had to make. Each moment there was filled with anxiety and fear. The war was relentless, reducing cities to rubble. Explosions shook the ground every minute, and destruction surrounded us. Hunger was constant, and water was scarce. Seeing my children suffer was unbearable—their skin pale and their bones visible from malnutrition. At that point, I had no choice but to make the painful decision to leave.

It broke my heart to leave my husband, Samer, behind in Gaza. His exit visa had expired, trapping him in an unimaginable situation. During our journey, the children cried constantly—not just from hunger but from fear. Every step was a challenge, filled with uncertainty about whether we would reach Australia. The journey was long and exhausting, oscillating between hope and despair.

I tried to be strong for my children, even though I was broken inside. I showed them what little strength I had to encourage them to keep going. We feared the border would close before we could cross. Leaving my husband behind in the church was overwhelming, and fear gripped my heart as we traveled. I carried the responsibility of my three children alone, despite being sick and weak. We crossed the entire distance on foot, eventually making it to the Rafah land crossing, then to Egypt, and finally to Australia.

Sadness filled our hearts as we left my husband behind. Memories of our life together in Gaza haunted us. We witnessed so much death around us, but we hold on to the hope that we deserve to live like others around the world—in peace and love. My children have the right to have their father with them in Australia. Even now, they feel incomplete without him.

They go to school longing for their father to take them, watching other fathers embrace their children at the gate. On Father’s Day, my daughter cried because she saw other children with their fathers while she was alone. She kept saying, “I want my father.”

I am sharing my story because we are not truly settled in Australia without my husband. We need him here to feel the warmth of our family and to find peace in this new country that has welcomed us. Our hope is to start a new life together, step by step, for the safety and happiness of our children. I pray that God will bring us together so that we can continue our life journey as one family.

Rawan Tarazi