In the early days of the bombardment, Janette Maher imagined she and her family were adrift on Noah’s Ark. She, her two parents, and her three children had taken shelter in the funeral halls of St. Porphyrius Church, one of three churches in Gaza. The church, which stood as a historical safe zone during Israel’s routine air strikes on the Gaza Strip, housed about 500 Christians within its compound. As bombs fell around them, the survivors ate, prayed, and sang worship songs together.

When she was fortunate enough to get cell reception, Janette would send updates of the situation to her husband, Hanna Maher. Hanna, the only Protestant pastor in Gaza, had been visiting Cairo for two weeks for a conference when the air strikes began. He was trapped in Egypt, separated from his family.

On October 19, at 10 p.m., as Janette was preparing to sleep, the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) struck one of the church’s buildings. She and her children watched as those around them dug through the rubble, trying to save any survivors. They were forced to heave the debris in pitch dark — Israel had blocked access to electricity in the Strip. Wails echoed in the funeral hall throughout the night. Finally, in the morning light, the corpses had been recovered. In total, 18 people died in the strike; among the dead were six children. 

Weeks passed, and winter loomed. The church was running out of food. After finally receiving permission from border security, Janette decided to flee with her children to Rafah. This was an immense risk: She would be traversing a 40-kilometer trek across the front lines of an active warzone. Maher, terrified for their safety, waited on the other side of the crossing, searching for the faces of his wife and children amid the crowd. When they finally reunited, he was overjoyed to see them safe. 

But trauma followed the children. “They saw Israeli tanks, they saw Israel attacking people, and people dying around them. They cannot forget that, I think.” Maher said. “When they play, it’s really violent.” Maher showed me a family photo taken moments after they reunited. Only the children are smiling. Timothy, the youngest, points a finger gun at the camera. 

On September 14 of 2024, Hanna Maher was stopped at the border checkpoint of North Sinai with 80 thick blankets stuffed into the back of his car. Armed guards took his ID, which revealed both his religion (Christian) and his occupation (Pastor). Then, they ordered him to exit his car and took him inside the checkpoint. They led him to a concrete room, which, covering hardly a square meter, was more akin to a closet. 

Time passed. Maher called out, “Give me my ID, and I’ll go back.” The young men guarding the checkpoint refused. Desperate, he tried lying: “I didn’t even want to go to the North.” Maher’s case had been reported to their superior; he was at the mercy of the Egyptian bureaucratic machine. 

When Maher pleaded for water — after two hours of detention in the room — the guards ignored him. Maher was only permitted to enter North Sinai after he called the pastor of a nearby synod, who negotiated directly with the guards’ superior. 

This was not the first time Maher had encountered complications at the North Sinai border. For every week of 2024, he drove aid supplies from his flat in Cairo to the city of El-Arish, 45 kilometers west from the Egypt-Gaza border crossing. The region has a history of Islamist terrorism, so security is tight, especially for Christians. “They say: you are a pastor, this is a fundamentalist area, so maybe you’ll be killed…for your safety, you cannot go,” Maher said. Then a smile crept up on his face. “But we have three ways to the North, so I change the way, and it works.”

In the wake of Israel’s ground invasion of Gaza, El-Arish was the first stop for any Palestinians who were allowed entry into Egypt through Rafah Crossing. Over the course of the year, more than 100,000 Palestinians entered Egypt through Rafah. These were, ostensibly, the lucky ones: either through foreign citizenship, foreign connections, or severe illnesses, these were the privileged five percent of Gaza’s population allowed an escape from hell. But arriving on the other side of Rafah Crossing was not the end of their arduous journey. Many traveled to El-Arish with just the clothes on their backs. Like Maher himself, they had lost homes, savings, and loved ones to Israeli bombs. 

Each week, Maher ran a one-man, guerrilla aid operation. He campaigned for funding and personally delivered everything: blankets, food, clothing, and even soccer balls, to the Palestinians who found themselves stranded in El-Arish. Work in that region is difficult and dangerous for a Christian, but he persists. 

“I feel something from God inside me,” Maher quotes the book of Jeremiah: “You prophets who do nothing but dream go ahead and tell your silly dreams […] Isn’t my Message like fire?”

“God’s word is like a fire inside me, so I cannot be silent or stay,” he said, resolutely. 

Almost a year since escaping from Gaza, the family was only beginning to heal. “I just wish I could bring my kids past this difficult time,” said Janette, over a breakfast of boiled eggs and milk. “We struggle to send them to school.” 

“Sometimes I feel like Job, who lost everything, and doesn’t understand why it happened,” Maher’s voice cracked as he broke into tears. “I obeyed God to go to Gaza. Why did all this happen to me?” 

In February of 2025, Maher and his family received the papers necessary to move from Egypt to Australia. The nation had opened its doors to thousands of Palestinians who fled from Gaza. With time, his children have displayed improvements in their mental health. They like Sydney, and there is a nearby community of Palestinians they can interact with. 

It was an incredibly difficult decision to move. Maher continues to try to work as a pastor, although he has found some difficulties. “It takes a lot of steps to become a pastor here,” he lamented. “But I am working on it.”