Inheriting Exile: The Identity Struggle of a Palestine Refugee
by Shahd Safi
Shahd Safi evacuated Gaza in 2024 after five months of life under Israeli military assault. An UNRWA school alum, she is now rebuilding her life as a university student in the US, where she is pursuing a joint major in Human Rights and Written Arts. She also teaches Arabic through our partner organization, NaTakallam. Through her writing for the Voices of UNRWA blog, Shahd explores generational displacement, the vital role of UNRWA for Palestine refugees, and the deep sense of loss that comes with being away from home.
Growing up, I frequently heard the word "refugee."
I have spent most of my life in Gaza, a place that has profoundly shaped my understanding of who I am. I come from a family of refugees on both my mother’s and father’s sides.
My paternal grandmother was displaced from Yaffa, and my paternal grandfather from the village of Qastina—both during the Nakba of 1948, one year before UNRWA, the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees, was established by the UN. My father often shared the horrific details of their displacement; they were forced to leave everything behind and start from scratch, an effort that required immense resilience as they struggled to settle in Gaza.
My father, Jamal Safi, told me, “When my parents first arrived in Gaza, they set up tents, along with all the other displaced families. There were very few resources because so many people had been forced out of their homes and had no idea where they would settle. In the beginning, both of my grandparents held onto the hope of returning to their homes. But sadly, that never happened. They eventually gave up on that hope and focused on building their lives in Gaza. When UNRWA arrived, it was a huge relief for us. They hired my father, and that became our main source of income.”
On my mother’s side, the story of displacement is just as painful. In 1967, my mom’s family was expelled from the Al Naqab area in southern Palestine by the Israeli military, just like my dad’s family, but they were forcibly sent to Cairo, Egypt, instead of Gaza. My mother, only a year old at the time, grew up in Egypt, adopting an Egyptian identity and dialect. In 1993, her family was allowed to return to Gaza, but they could not return to Al Naqab. While my mother, a young woman at the time, wanted to stay in Egypt with her friends, her family longed to return to their Palestinian roots.
Growing up, I watched my mother struggle with her identity. As she worked to reconnect with her Palestinian heritage, she would sing Egyptian anthems and cultural songs to us, rather than Palestinian ones. This left her feeling torn between two identities, trying to reconcile the different countries that shaped her. I relate to my mom’s identity struggle, and I believe that every Palestinian can understand this feeling, especially in a world where our identity is under constant attack and our culture is often misrepresented in the media.
I experienced this struggle deeply during my time in Gaza. Every day, I battled with a heavy nostalgia for my roots. I longed to visit the places where my family came from, but in Gaza—essentially the widest open-air prison in the world—where Palestinians have little to no freedom of movement, this was basically impossible. Israel's restrictions prevent us from seeing beyond the confines of the Gaza Strip and visiting our ancestral land of Palestine and other places in the world.
Now, here in the US, my identity struggle has intensified. I miss my mom, my family, and my community. I often feel like a stranger, forced to constantly defend my Palestinian identity. I’ve been asked ignorant questions about Arabs, shaped by stereotypes perpetuated by the Western media—questions about camels, deserts, and terrorism when I mention that I’m from Palestine or the Middle East.
These questions reflect the pervasive misrepresentation of Arabs in the media, particularly Palestinians. People need to understand that Palestine is a land of diversity, with beaches, coastal areas, mountains, and deserts. It’s a place with a rich, varied landscape. But beyond that, they need to recognize the deep history of oppression faced by the people of Palestine, who have been suffering under oppressive ideologies and forces since 1948.
Palestinians are not just survivors; they are highly educated, creative, and resilient. We have a deep cultural connection to dance and poetry. Our traditional dance, Dabka, expresses our joy and solidarity. Our poets, like Mahmoud Darwish and Ghassan Kanafani, have made profound contributions to literature, telling our story to the world. It’s essential for people to understand that Palestine is more than the stereotypes often presented—it’s a land of history, culture, and a people who continue to fight for their right to exist and be heard.
I attended UNRWA schools from age six until I turned 15. I consistently earned high grades, and being among the top students in my class. School was a positive community for me—my UNRWA teachers were always challenging us to be our best. Interestingly, my father himself is an UNRWA school alumnus, as are all his siblings, many of whom have gone on to earn PhDs or pursue careers in medicine.
Between the ages of 6 and 12, I eagerly participated in every UNRWA summer camp. I swam in their pools, jumped on trampolines, danced Dabke, and learned Palestinian cultural songs that even my mom didn’t know. I vividly remember the white t-shirts and hats with the UNRWA logo, which we proudly wore. The school uniform taught me discipline and gave me a deep appreciation for the sense of community that school provided.
I also got involved in student leadership, participating in the UNRWA student parliament and holding several positions, including class leader and communication coordinator. These experiences sparked my passion for leadership, which I continue to nurture today.
UNRWA also provided essential services to my family. We received medical care, dental products, and vitamins. Whenever I fell ill, it was the UNRWA clinics my parents took me to for treatment. These services were indispensable, and I am incredibly grateful for the relief they offered.
While UNRWA has undoubtedly improved our lives and provided essential services, it can never replace what we lost—our home, our land, and our heritage. The displacement remains an unhealed wound, one that UNRWA’s support, though invaluable, cannot resolve. Still, I recognize and am grateful for the role UNRWA has played in my family’s journey, offering us relief and a semblance of stability, even as we continue to long for the return of what was lost.
As I write this, I find myself displaced, much like my parents once were. On March 3rd, I survived what many experts are calling a genocide in the Gaza Strip, leaving behind my father and some of my siblings. I could only escape with my mother and four of my siblings. Since then, I’ve been struggling with guilt, trying to come to terms with the immense loss, my shifting identity, and even unexpected feelings of excitement about my future.
Now, living in the US, I’m pursuing a joint major in Human Rights and Written Arts. I carry with me the heavy guilt of being one of the few fortunate students from Gaza. Despite the devastation—my university reduced to rubble by Israeli strikes—I’ve somehow found a way to continue my education. But my heart remains torn as I watch the situation in Gaza worsen, especially with the ongoing defunding of UNRWA by the U.S. The weight of it all is something I carry every day.
I am 24 now, and 23 years of my life were all about Gaza. After my family established themselves in Gaza, we found ourselves again witnessing the Gaza that my grandparents witnessed, the one that was full of tents. The difference is, this time, UNRWA is not being built but rather targeted to be dismantled after 76 years of the ongoing Palestinian Nakba.
Since escaping, every day has felt ironically like a birthday, a new life, even while I continue feeling like I am barely surviving emotionally. I truly appreciate every day of my life because I know my life was about to be taken from me back in Gaza. I cannot forget how I fought for my survival every single day.
Gaza needs UNRWA now more than ever. With the ongoing genocide, the situation in Gaza has become even more dire than ever before. The possibility of removing UNRWA now, after tens of thousands of Palestinians have been killed and countless homes destroyed, threatens to further devastate the lives of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians.
Now it is crucial that we act. We must advocate for a ceasefire, advocate for the United States to restore funding to UNRWA, and make it clear to our elected officials here that until there is a just and durable solution to the plight of Palestine refugees, UNRWA is irreplaceable.
You can take action for Palestine refugees! Join Shahd in demanding US government funding be restored to UNRWA. Send this pre-written letter daily and encourage others to do the same—every message sent brings us closer to a better future for Palestine refugees.
Or make a donation to support UNRWA’s relief efforts on the ground in the Gaza Strip, West Bank – including East Jerusalem – Jordan, Lebanon, and Syria.