Between the door and the window there is a world that is more than just four walls, a world fragrant with the scent of lavender and old books, from whose shelves hang veins of ivy with their delicate greens, golden sunlight filtering through its soft curtains to transform it into a magical place.

Paintings hang here and there, with colors that give you comfort and make you contemplate life; secrets, questions, conversations, and memories are painted on its walls. It is a world where I meet myself and the tranquility I need: Here, I say what I want, and I do what I want. It is my safe haven. It is my room.

Deep conversations

I have had many, many conversations with my room about hope and despair, dreams and goals, success and failure, life and death, the past and the present, the future and the future and the future. A lot about the future.

Sometimes we would immerse ourselves in my dreams of a future without limit, and I would ask her the questions occupying my mind. But eventually I would forget these questions, wanting only to live in the moment with all its details.

I spend my life either fulfilling some of my dreams or considering all the things I would love to do but cannot. And wondering, will there be a day when my dreams come true, or will they remain hanging on barbed wire like the dreams of so many others?

But this is no longer important now. Because of their brutality, our biggest dream is now only to survive.

The last time

On the evening of October 6, my mother and I sat in my room, telling each other about our day. Then we began making plans for the week, which was of course accompanied by lots of laughter and my inevitable childhood memories, like writing a poem together with my mother about Palestine and reciting it on the school stage.

In a moment of silence, I asked my mother, “Mama, what do you think the future holds for me?” She smiled and said, “All the beautiful things,” then kissed me.

That night, in my room’s lap, I delved into the ocean of my dreams, wishing for all those beautiful things. I did not know it was the last time these dreams would cross my mind.

When I opened my eyes the next morning to a malicious black cloud full of vengeful anger, because of which the white cloud that carried those beautiful things vanished, I found myself isolated with my panic, consumed by its suffocating odor of gunpowder, blood, and death.

It was no longer the sound of the morning birds at my window that woke me up, but the sound of the earth crying out, broken by the pain of explosions that shook it to its core.

That day, I got out of bed slowly, and when my feet touched the cold tiles my body shivered, but it was not the chill of cold. Rather, it was the chill of panic that spread through my veins.

I leaned on what remained of the courage in my heart and hurried to my mother. Without saying a word, her eyes were able to speak, saying, “Bloody wrath is coming.”

In that terrifying moment, the first thing that came to mind was the question that we have all been asked: “If today was the last day of your life, what would you do?”

We never expected this question would become our reality, that October 6 was the last time we would fully experience so many of the things we love: the place, the person, the evening, the company, the laugh, the university, the feeling, the food, the family.

During our farewell, we remained dry-eyed, not yet realizing these were our goodbyes. Now, we find freedom in our memories, which have become our sole refuge. Memories enable us to survive today.

Every morning since October 7, I have been wiping the dust of the rubble from my memories, and begging my beloved Gaza not to call out to me, lest I lose my way. The hungry birds have eaten the breadcrumbs that I scattered right before I was displaced from my home into the unknown, those crumbs the only sign that I was here.

Forgetting you, Gaza, is impossible; returning to you is impossible; fleeing you is impossible. So where can we escape?

My earthly paradise

My mind opens, every memory like a box studded with seashells. I see our small home, with its beauty of calm and warmth. I am not exaggerating when I say we placed every stone in it with love, with both suffering and happiness and a very long time spent waiting.

But they did not care about the love in each stone when they launched the missiles that destroyed our earthly paradise. One wall is completely gone, and the other leans on what remains of the stones, their steadfastness derived from the echo of our spirit and laughter.

Despite all this, I have a bright ray of hope telling me that everything has an end, even this nightmare. I will return to my paradise, and I will climb those stones and thank them for their years of protection.

I will reach my room, touch my old books, dust off the rubble, console the ivy tree that lost its splendor, and contemplate my paintings, whose colors and features have become pale.

I will tell my room that nothing beautiful has happened to me, not yet, but that I managed five times to outrun death in the streets of my city that they disfigured. After they demolished my home, after my ears and my heart stopped for a few seconds due to the horror of the missiles falling around us, after we were displaced and separated from each other, after and after and after….

And I will never ever forget to tell her that, like the phoenix, we are born from our own ashes.