There is a version of Gaza that lives vividly in my mind, a place now accessible only through memory. It was a city pulsing with life, a kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells. I recall the aroma of fresh bread from the corner bakery and the cheerful chaos of the Friday market. This was the Gaza I called home.
Two years ago, the fabric of that reality was torn apart. The war began not with a single event, but as a creeping dread that soon became a torrent of violence. The familiar soundtrack of the city—children's laughter, the call to prayer—was replaced by the percussive, terrifying rhythm of airstrikes. Safety became a forgotten luxury.
When I finally saw my street again, it was unrecognizable. Our home, the repository of my entire childhood, had been obliterated, reduced to a heap of concrete and twisted metal. Landmarks that had seemed permanent—the ancient mosque, the library, the park—had either vanished or were damaged beyond repair.
The loss is more than just physical; it's the erasure of a shared existence. The places where we celebrated, mourned, and simply lived are gone. What remains is a ghost of a city, haunted by the echoes of what it once was. This feeling is incredibly poignant, a constant ache for a home that no longer exists.
Yet, amidst the devastation, you can see small signs of human resilience. People clearing debris, sharing what little they have, telling stories to keep the memory of the old Gaza alive. It is in these stories, in our collective memory, that my home survives. The physical city may be gone, but its spirit endures in its people.