Amal Rafiq’s classroom from when she was 10 years old; it suffered window damage. Photo: Amal Rafiq

Dear Friends,

I don’t know what was pulling me forward that morning, but after the ceasefire I felt compelled to visit my grandmother’s house, in the central section of Gaza, and I have to tell you, my friends, I didn’t find any house standing—including my grandmother’s.

My grandmother walked beside me through the rubble, and seeing her tears after all those years of war hurt more than the destruction itself—she should have been living peacefully among her grandchildren, not witnessing the collapse of the life she built.

I stood speechless at this terrifying view, and it crossed my mind that Gaza could easily serve as the set of a horror film, with the scene already prepped for the actors.

A mural on the ruins of a destroyed house stopped me: “The Hamdan family martyrs lie under the rubble.” My heart ached when I passed by this house, and I murmured prayers for their souls.

Each of those houses once carried a happy family, and I pondered the fact that their homes were not just concrete structures—they were places filled with joy, memories, and life for everyone who lived there. Usually elsewhere in the world, houses stand for generations, becoming part of the family’s legacy. But here, our homes are gone before we even get the chance to live in them.

Friends, remember how dangerous this neighborhood was during the war? No one dared to come near it. Every day we heard terrifying stories—about a family that was martyred before they could even flee, about drones dropping bombs overhead, snipers watching every corner, and ambulances that couldn’t reach the wounded who were left bleeding in the street. Walking through that same street now, its empty silence made a shiver run through me.

Destruction in the neighborhood near the school. Photo: Amal Rafiq

I continued the rest of the walk alone. On my way home, I passed near our childhood school, and I wondered if it was still standing or if the torrent of events had swept it away. I gathered my courage and walked toward its street. I was trying to find a place that still held my memories, reassuring myself that not everything I’ve loved has been lost.

I awoke from my reverie when I saw the building still standing. I stepped through the gate, and my tears were like those of a lost little child who suddenly finds her mother. I stood there, frozen, letting my eyes wander to every corner as if I had been there yesterday. My friends, the building survived!

I saw the corner where we used to walk to our classes, the bus stop where we waited every afternoon to go home, and I remembered the little jokes we shared. I noticed the spot where we celebrated our classmate’s birthday— our laughter, the little songs we sang, and the clatter of forks on plates as we ate the sweets. Even now, the memory made me smile.

The school was open, and a small meeting was taking place between the teachers and the school principal. Otherwise, the building was almost empty, so I was able to go inside without trouble.

I walked into every classroom, touching the walls, and thought of all of you—wondering where you are now, what you are doing, if you are still alive after everything Gaza has endured.

Deep in my soul, this small school smelled of memories, of chalk dust and lunchboxes. The hallway felt familiar. I could almost feel it holding my hand again, the way it did when I was just ten years old. And when I entered the schoolyard, I could see everywhere we used to play, every corner filled with our echoes as if I were watching my life unfold again.

I remembered the school’s Open Day, when classes were replaced with a schedule of activities, the smell of food we prepared together, and that morning when we all cried as the medical team arrived with the vaccination needles. I wondered what happened to the driver of our red bus—the man who lit up the foggy winter mornings in my neighborhood. I was that quiet girl who always sat next to the window, until I knew the road by heart. I even remembered where each of you lived—the streets, the doors, and the small details that built the world we once knew.

Do you remember the twin boys who were always late? Running with their breakfast in hand, given to them by their mother at the door, while we laughed at their daily race against time. Or the boy who never missed a chance to challenge me for the top spot. And Layan—my seatmate, the girl who shared my desk and half my soul. I wish I could gather all of you and remind you of that day when we went on a school trip to a huge green field, bigger than a football field. We played all day, ate sweets, sang childhood songs, and returned home carrying bags of toys that were even bigger than our bodies.

Perhaps you remember the state of the bus that day, packed so full of gifts and toys that we could barely see ourselves. When I finally got home that day, my mom was worried, but the moment I showed her that huge bag, my excitement made her forget all about it.

Do you recall the wooden stage on the roof where we held our graduation ceremonies? Layan, do you remember how we danced together in our shining white dresses? I looked for the stage during my visit, but all I found was an empty space where our joy once stood. How strange it is that a small place can hold so much of our hearts. How powerful memories are, how they cling to walls, gates, hallways—even long after the laughter fades. I took thousands of photos that day, as if I were trying to save my childhood from disappearing, and I wished that moment could stretch endlessly. I wished I could sit there forever, unbothered by time or the world outside.

Workers repairing the street, which Amal witnessed on her way home. Photo: Amal Rafiq

This visit filled me with joy and sorrow in equal measure because here, even beautiful memories hurt. On my way back, I walked through the streets, still broken and silent. Rubble lined the sidewalks, and dust filled the air.

But I saw workers moving among the rubble and repairing the destroyed streets, and for the first time in years, the street felt like it could hold life again. If our school survived, maybe one day we will, too—our dreams, our memories, our stories. And maybe, just maybe, we will meet again in a Gaza that can finally hold life instead of loss.

From the place where our memories still stand,

Amal