‘Unwritten memories: It should have been me/it could have been me.’ Hand-stitched Palestinian tatreez and photo collage on canvas, 2024, made by the author. Photo by the author, used with permission.

When the list of people killed was released from the Gaza Ministry of Health, I couldn't help but search for my name. How many of me did I find? The first time I checked, in November 2023, there were 19 of me killed — later, that number grew to over 50 known killed Safas, ranging from ages 1 to 82.

How are we connected? And what will they teach me without us meeting? 

A Palestinian duality

I’ve often felt pulled in two directions — a duality I feel as a Palestinian in the diaspora: yearning and anguish. On the one hand, a yearning to have had childhood memories in Palestine — why not me? On the other hand, an anguish at the thought of what could have been had our family fled to Gaza and it were me there right now — what if it had been me?

Why not me?

I often imagine what my life could have been like if I had had childhood memories in Palestine … especially in my fantasy of a free Palestine. Maybe we would have visited the Mediterranean Sea for our family trips.

What if it had been me?

I also often think about how my reality of exile could have been a different fate. Had any of my grandparents made a different decision in 1948 and went south, I could have also been in Gaza right now. 

As the daughter and granddaughter of Palestinian refugees, I've often found myself thinking about what my life could have been had they fled south during the Nakba.

We Palestinians in the diaspora have been dealing with survivor’s guilt, especially during the genocide in Gaza. Diana Safieh wrote: “The constant flow of distressing news from Palestine — images of destruction, stories of loss and accounts of human rights abuses — is overwhelming. And I feel guilty mentioning sleeplessness because it’s nothing compared to what people back home are experiencing all the time.” 

Our shared namesake 

It brings me comfort to believe that Safas have a shared connection. While it may be a mere coincidence that we share the same name, I grew up reflecting on the meanings of my name, often. 

There are different ways to translate Safa (spelled in Arabic: صفاء). Depending on who you talk to, it may be translated as “clarity,” “serenity,” or “tranquility.” It's also one of the most famous holy sites for Muslims on the pilgrimage: Al-Safa and Al-Marwa. Safa shows up in many places, such as the Umm Safa village in Palestine. In southern Syria, there is a volcanic mountain bearing our name.

I've often wondered growing up if that clarity, tranquility, and serenity described me or if it was aspirational — something I'd never quite achieve but always try to. Oftentimes, I felt very chaotic, unbalanced, and confused. 

Were the Safas in Gaza, those who reached my age or older, also confused like I was or did some of them have it all figured out? I especially yearn to speak to 82-year-old Safa. She was just barely older than my mom is now. What were her greatest achievements and most precious memories? What advice would she have given to us other Safas if she were still alive?

Maya Angelou famously said, “I come as one, but I stand as 10,000.” I used to imagine that meant I carried with me everywhere my late grandparents, aunts, uncles, and ancestors, as well as loved ones who were still alive but not near me. But since 2023, I’ve carried Safas in Gaza everywhere with me, guiding my big decisions and feeling the weight of responsibility to live.