When you walk through the streets of your city, you may find some places beautiful, others unattractive or even meaningless. But for Gazans, it’s not like that.

Every street, every tree, every photo, even the smallest pieces of paper carries a meaning beyond their physical existence. They are more than just “things” — they have memories, emotions, and fragments of lives intertwined.

I thought about this as I walked down the street leading to my best friend Roaa’s house. A street that, every time I passed by, compelled me to stop and see her. I would knock on her door and ask if she wanted to go for a walk, and she was always ready.

Together, we would buy chocolate milk and stroll through Shari’ Al-Eshreen (20th Street); which leads to our schools. We’d share stories, laughing at every little detail, completely lost in the warmth of our friendship.

One of our favorite moments was when we passed by a jasmine tree. Its beauty called to us every time. We’d pick the flowers, place them on our heads, and take quick photos, giggling and rushing before anyone could notice. That jasmine tree wasn’t just a tree to us; it felt alive, as if it shared our joy and laughter.

Now, the tree stands alone in a dangerous area I can no longer reach. Sometimes, I imagine it missing us, wondering where the two girls who used to crown themselves with its flowers have gone. Does it feel as empty as I do?

Just like the jasmine tree, so much of what defined those happy days is now out of reach. Roaa’s house, once filled with warmth and life, no longer stands; it was destroyed in an airstrike, and she is no longer here. She was martyred, leaving behind memories that ache with every step I take near that street.

Roaa’s house was more than just a home to me; it was a sanctuary of love and kindness. Every time I knocked on their door, her grandmother would greet me with a warm smile that felt like a hug for my soul. She would ask, “How are you, my child?” Her gentle words always made me feel like I was part of their family. Her mother, too, never let me leave without sharing a cup of tea. The house was always filled with warmth and laughter, the kind that made me forget the world outside.

Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind an emptiness that words cannot describe. When I pass by, my heart races. I close my eyes for a moment, almost expecting to hear her voice again: “Should we buy chocolate milk and take a walk?” But the voice is gone, replaced by silence that feels heavier than the rubble. Even the jasmine tree, the one I can no longer reach but that used to be our little escape, is not the same anymore. What is the meaning of picking jasmine flowers without Roaa beside me, without her laughter, without the life she brought to every moment?

I remember once, while I was scrolling through Instagram, I saw that my friend had posted about a street next to mine, saying: “Most beautiful street in Al-Nuseirat camp.” I stopped for a second, and I thought of all the sorrow that this street carries, that those high walls are hiding behind the cheerful colors and the fragrant scents of the blooming flowers. My friend who posted didn’t know that the owners of the house she was captivated by had lost their daughter’s family, and that these walls were silently embracing their pain.

At that same moment that she was taking pictures of the house, overjoyed to finally find a beautiful place amidst all this rubble, the family was living through the darkest days of their lives, experiencing a grief so heavy that it would forever remain etched in their hearts. They would never know about the fleeting joy she felt in that same moment, nor would she ever imagine the depth of their sorrow.

Sometimes, the same place can hold two entirely different worlds, existing side by side, yet so far apart.

Each of us carries different emotions and unique perspectives of a place, depending on the memories and experiences we’ve lived there. For one person, a jasmine tree is just a tree. For another, it’s a whole life, a life that’s now gone.

In Gaza, the streets, the walls, the trees: They all speak, not in words, but in memories. Every element in Gaza has a story, and every person in between has a memory attached to it. These stories are woven into the fabric of the place, reminding us that even when the places change, the memories remain.