Gaza's Palestinians in Egypt torn between wanting to return or building a new life abroad

In a modest café in Egypt's New Cairo, the clinking of cups mingles with conversations tinted with the Gazan dialect.

The café has quietly transformed into a crucial gathering place for Palestinians who were able to flee Gaza's destruction during Israel's two-year genocidal war. They come here daily to share news from home, scroll endlessly through updates on their phones, and exchange jokes that ease the burden of exile. The aroma of coffee drifts through the air, mixing with the scent of longing.

At a table by the window, overlooking a small patch of trees, three young men sit with their phones in hand. Every few minutes, one of them looks up from the screen and mutters, "I wish we could go back, but how?" The question lingers in the air like smoke, unanswered, echoing through the room.

Ahmed, 35, has lived in Egypt for 18 months. "At first, I thought it would be a few weeks, maybe a month, but time passes," he told The New Arab. "I found a simple job in a clothing shop, and I've made some kind Egyptian friends. Egyptians are warm people; they never made us feel like outsiders."

He pauses before softly adding, "Still, no matter how kind life here is, home remains in our hearts. When I hear someone speak in our dialect, I feel like I'm back in Shujaiya or Rimal for a moment. This place reminds me of Gaza, the smell, the faces, the memories, even if it's just for a heartbeat." 

Longing to return, but to what?

Before Israel's war, Ahmed lived in Gaza City's al-Rimal neighbourhood. He owned a private import business but lost everything because of the war.

He decided to leave Gaza temporarily after four months into Israel's genocidal war. Now, he is stuck in Egypt because the situation in Gaza remains unstable, and he needs to move forward with his life.

Around him, the café hums with conversations steeped in nostalgia. One man talks about the house he lost in the last bombardment. Another shows photos of his mother, who stayed behind in Gaza and waits for his nightly calls.

All of them long to return, but also fear what awaits them if they do.

"Even if Gaza is destroyed, I will return," Laith Abu Shaaban, 29, from al-Nuseirat refugee camp, who now lives with relatives in Cairo, told TNA. "The homeland needs us. What's the point of staying here while people are living under the rubble?" 

"Gaza isn't just stones; it's its people. If we all leave, who will rebuild it?" he added. "Maybe I won't find a house or work, but walking its streets again will be enough. Home is not comfortable; it's identity."

Nearby, Samir, 42, listens silently, occasionally nodding. His expression carries both empathy and exhaustion.

"I lost everything in Gaza, my family, my home, my job," he said. "Here in Egypt, I started over. I work in a small company, send what I can to my brother in Khan Younis, and try to live quietly."

For Samir, Gaza has no power, no safety, no future. Returning is a beautiful dream, but "a painful reality."

These contrasting views capture the fragmentation of the Palestinian experience in Egypt, torn between hope and resignation.

Since the start of Israel's genocidal war in October 2023, about 120,000 Palestinians have left the coastal enclave, according to official statistics issued by the Palestinian embassy to Egypt.

About 80,000 Palestinians live in Egypt now; some in rented flats, others with relatives, all navigating uncertainty.

For 27-year-old Mohammed Abu Sido, a graduate of Al-Azhar University in Gaza, the idea of return is "suspended between heart and mind."

"My heart aches for Gaza, for the sound of street vendors in the morning and the smell of fresh bread. But my mind says life there is unbearable. There's no electricity, no clean water, no jobs, no future. At least in Egypt, you can start again," he told TNA.

He pauses, looking toward the tables filled with other displaced Palestinians. "Still," he added, "no one can fill the emptiness with home. Egypt is generous, but home is home."

That generosity, many say, has shaped their experience of displacement. "Egyptians never asked where we were from," Abu Sido explained. "They just welcomed us. There's a deep sense of solidarity, maybe because they understand what dignity and hospitality mean."

Yet for others, the comfort of kindness doesn't erase the ache of separation. "Sometimes, when someone calls me 'Ya Ghazawi,' I feel both proud and homesick. It reminds me who I am, someone between two worlds," Nidal Kamal, a married man whose wife remains trapped in Gaza, told TNA.

Nidal had hoped to bring his wife to Cairo, but the Rafah crossing has remained closed for more than 18 months.

"I want to return, even if I live in a tent," he said quietly. "At least I'll be among my people. But I only wish that we could live without war, that the division between Hamas and Fatah would end. We're exhausted by loss and politics."

Between nostalgia and political paralysis

For many Palestinians in Egypt, the question of return is no longer only emotional; it's deeply political. The destruction of Gaza's infrastructure, the humanitarian collapse, and the paralysis of Palestinian reconciliation efforts have turned return into a distant aspiration.

Khalil al-Halabi, a researcher in political sociology at Al-Ummah University and now displaced in Cairo, told TNA that the Palestinian experience in Egypt reflects "a different form of exile."

"Egypt is not foreign to us. Our ties—social, cultural, and even linguistic—go back generations. But today, a new generation of Palestinians is facing a painful duality: learning to adapt to a new life without cutting their roots to the homeland," he said.

According to al-Halabi, the longing many Palestinians feel is "not just for a lost geography, but for stability and dignity."

"Gaza is not merely a destroyed place. It's a society stripped of its political meaning by war and division. The decision to return or stay isn't simple. It depends on whether people believe Gaza can be rebuilt or reconciled politically. Hope determines whether one packs to go home or unpacks to stay," he said.

As midnight approaches, the café slowly empties. Chairs are pushed back, bills are paid, and phones light up with new alerts from Gaza, another airstrike, another list of names.

Outside, Cairo's night hums with traffic and neon lights. Inside, the traces of nostalgia remain in the empty cups, in the laughter that fades too soon, and in the Gazan accent that refuses to disappear.