
Imagine a place you loved so deeply that you thought it was eternal, a place where you painted the most beautiful memories of your childhood. Then, suddenly, you find it reduced to rubble, as if no one had ever lived there, as if the place had never existed at all. This place was not just a home; it was a sanctuary filled with warmth, laughter, and life. Its sudden disappearance leaves a void that no words can fully capture.
We lived near my grandmother’s house, but it was there that I truly grew up.
It was an ordinary house with two floors and a front yard surrounded by fig, olive, and lemon trees. The trees stood as silent witnesses to the joy and peace that had once filled the house. Inside, the furniture was of a classic, timeless style, and the many rooms were filled with children and grandchildren. The house was a lively place, with every corner echoing the sounds of family gatherings, games, and conversations. It was the heart of our family, warm and alive, just like my grandmother’s heart: always open to us, always welcoming, no matter how much time had passed since our last visit.
Every weekend, my grandmother would gather us together and prepare the most delicious meals, especially my favorite dish, fried kubah. No one could make it like her. Her secret was in the love and care she put into each dish, turning every meal into a celebration of family and tradition. We would sit together at the same table, sharing stories and laughter, creating memories that would last a lifetime.
That warmth lasted for 21 years of my life, until time suddenly came to a halt. Those long years now feel like a dream, a mirage, fading into the distance as if they never truly existed.
When the war on Gaza began, my grandmother, aunts, and uncles had to leave their home due to the danger and relentless bombing that targeted their neighbors’ house. The once-safe sanctuary became a place of fear and uncertainty.
Two months into the war, in December, military operations intensified in their area, leading to fierce clashes between Israeli soldiers and Palestinian resistance fighters. We lost contact and had no news of the house. Days turned into weeks, and on January 16, 2024, we finally learned that the army had withdrawn from the area, leaving the house destroyed beyond recognition.
When I heard the news, my heart broke. In that moment, I realized I had grown up suddenly. The real wreckage was in my heart, not just in the stones of my grandmother’s house. The house was gone, but the memories — those childhood memories — were now all I had left. I could picture them vividly: playing under the trees, singing, gathering the kids for races, and feeling a sense of safety I can never recapture. I could almost smell the warm, comforting scent of the house and feel the security that once filled me. That sense of peace was gone, replaced by deep, overwhelming sadness.
My grandmother wept bitterly. That house was the home of a lifetime, a witness to all our dreams — big and small, fulfilled and unfulfilled. It was more than just a physical structure; it was a part of our identity, a part of who we were. It’s hard for an elderly woman to tally such great losses, especially when they come one after another. She had already lost two of her brothers and their families in an Israeli airstrike on Deir Al-Balah. How could her heart endure more? How could she find the strength to go on?
My uncle went to see the house after its destruction. He found it reduced to a single wall and a pile of rubble. They hadn’t just destroyed the house; they had left vile graffiti on the last standing wall. The graffiti was a symbol of disrespect and hatred, a reminder of the cruelty inflicted upon us. He found remnants of food, clothes, and bullet casings. It seemed the house had been used as a military post before they bombed it. This is occupation in its literal and emotional sense. The house was no longer a home; it had become a place of war, a symbol of everything that had been taken from us.
My uncle left the site carrying a small bag filled with remnants of our lives: dusty clothes, photographs, and a few kitchen utensils that had miraculously survived the bullets and the blast. Those items, though small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, were treasures to us. They were the only tangible links to the life we had lost, the only pieces of the past that remained after everything else had been destroyed.
This is the reality for the people of Gaza and their homes. We do not mourn shattered stones; we mourn stolen lifetimes, cherished memories, and the warmth that Israel ripped from us, leaving us stranded in the cold and dark. The physical destruction of our homes is only a small part of the pain we feel.