A single door separates the calm world of a café from the struggle for survival in tents outside.

Throughout 18 months of displacement, and miles of walking between cities and refugee camps, I wore the same painful shoes.

My sister Islam, who shared my love of tape recording, was diligent, patient, and far brighter than me.

In 1948, my grandfather fled with only a bag of clothes. Last year he fled again—paralyzed, in a wheelchair, and carried aloft by his family.

Those who survive the genocide will return to houses that have been reduced to rubble, and yet the city will remain alive in its people.

Once a place of triumph and hope, the Al-Nasr neighborhood turned into a living hell overnight.

Exiled from his homeland, overworked, and burdened by debt, my nephew Ahmed dreamed of reuniting his family and a better life for his children.

I recognize the value of what we’ve lost and long to return to the difficult, unfair life we used to complain about.

One woman’s passion has become a source of healing for many.

It should not have been necessary for my brother to risk death at Gaza’s aid trucks to get food.

We came to Egypt fleeing death, but in exile suffering continues to chase us and we face an uncertain future.

Even as I am overwhelmed by this war, I still long to hope, to bring happiness to others, and to make things a little more normal.