In the dawn of a blessed Ramadan morning, as serenity embraced the air, I found solace in a heartfelt conversation with my dear friend, Abdalnoor. Suddenly from the skies, Israeli occupation jets unleashed their wrath, marking a fourth relentless assault on our modest haven.

Our cherished home, once a sanctuary of laughter, lay in ruins. Amidst the wreckage, our prized possessions and precious memories ascended to celestial realms, forever lost in the ethereal abyss.

This home was my parents’ dream to provide us with safety and comfort. It took them a lot of time, money, and hard work to create our sanctuary. They poured their hearts and investments into every corner of their home, every piece of carefully chosen furniture. Everyone in the family deliberated over their favorite color to paint their rooms.

A few weeks prior to the start of Israel’s war on Gaza, my father had just completed a beautiful addition. It included a charming window facing the backyard, new paint on the walls, and brand-new flagstone walkways.

Our house looked incredible. It was where friends, neighbors, and family would congregate, have a tasty lunch on Friday, or come for coffee and some dates on a Sunday morning, listening to Um Kulthom.

The four attacks

My uncle’s home was 800 meters from ours and on October 15, 2023, both our families were forced to evacuate. We went to the Western Directorate of Education, which was around 5 kilometers from my uncle’s house.

The first time our house was attacked was on December 18, 2023. My brother had recklessly gone there while the Israeli Occupation Forces were invading our neighborhood. Alhamdulillah, he survived.

The second time our house was attacked was on January 7, 2024. That same reckless brother was inside it with my sister and her son and daughter when an Israeli jet fighters targeted the house with two F-16 bombs. Alhamdulillah, they were lucky enough to miraculously escape death and danced at their good fortune.

The third time our home was attacked was on February 23, 2024, when all family members were visiting it, excluding my sister and her injured son and me; my father and older brother also were not there because they had both already detained by the Israelis (in fact, my father had been beaten and tortured before being released and banished to the Rafah border).

I was doing my worship when I heard loud noise emanating from an Israeli F-35 jet fighter; it targeted a location near my house just two minutes later.

I was standing at a window at my sister’s house, which was nearby, from which I could see my house. I informed my sister that the explosion was very close to our house.

Then one of my brothers came running out of breath to us, to share this news: Our house had been targeted yet again. My family members were fortunate enough to escape injury or death.

The fourth time our house was bombed was on March 11. It was bombed while I was talking to that dear friend of mine, and I could again see the explosion from the window of my sister’s house. I ran heedlessly over to the house to check on my friend (and now departed soulmate) Mahmoud Shiwikh and my brother, as they were sleeping alone in that dangerous place. Alhamdulillah they managed to flee safely.

But this time the house was completely flattened. Mahmoud tried to cheer me up, saying, “Hey man, you’re stronger than this, and believe me, we’ll rebuild it together, and such a black cloud will fade away one day.” I hope his soul is at peace!

About a week later, I went back to my house — which was a dangerous thing to do — to capture a picture of it. As I did so, I cried a lot. It is heartbreaking to lose your home and see it completely destroyed. My tears came uncontrollably. It felt as though my heart would burst from my chest.

Since then, tears have been my constant companion, and sleep has eluded me. But I know that crying will not rebuild my memories, dreams, or the past we shared.

Memories of my life at home

I spent the most pleasurable times of my life in our home. I had flourished and blossomed inside those walls. It was where I began my English writing journey.

In my bedroom, I used to sit at my desk and look through the window at a captivating and breathtaking view. My family and I would gather in that room and share our thoughts, our plans, our dreams. I miss my treasured books and my fancy desk. I’m still wondering where on earth my desk went — everything is gone but mounds of debris.

My favorite memories are of our family’s wintertime bonfires, when we would bury little potatoes in the flaming embers and put the kettle on top of the wood. I remember the clay oven on our farm behind our house, where my family, friends, and I would often gather to eat delicious barbequed fish, beef, and poultry and mangeesh.

I remember spending the entire night at the farm’s entrance, taking in the moon and the magnificent view of that paradise, cracking jokes and laughing heartily with one another. I remember how the grape trees danced like lights in the night sky.

The depth of my attachment to this location is beyond words. It’s gone now as well. Peace be with you, farm, my darling.

Our family photo album was blown 60 meters away in the bombing but remained intact, and now I love to look at the priceless images of our past, all the memories of our childhood, the phases of our lives and the unforgettable moments. The one I remember most is a photo taken when we were all babies, huddled together in love.

My father understands firsthand the tremendous impact of losing one’s home. He said to us, over the phone from his place of banishment in Rafah, “Our homes are the sum total of our lives; they hold all of the nuances of our day-to-day lives — the quiet times, the noisy conversations, the cosy rituals, the gentle whispers, the leftover aromas, the memory tapestry, the physical presence, the worn books, the comfortable clothes, the treasured photo album, and the collection of our tiny, sweet secrets that are woven into every season and important occasion.”

I still love my home

My wonderful family home can never be rebuilt or replaced. But even though it’s now a pile of rubble, I still enjoy going to the farm to hear the birds singing, to be away from the world’s chaos and noise, to lay my back on the green grass, to enjoy seeing the clean blue sky and the trees while blooming — despite the fact that the sky is filled with treacherous drones and jet fighters. I tend to the garden that still produces there, so we can feed our family. If I survive this genocide, I promise that I will rebuild our home again and make it more beautiful than ever!

The memories don’t die, but the pain remains. I think to myself, “Orqud fi Salam ya biti” which in English means, “Rest in peace, my home.” Sitting beside my demolished home, I am writing this message to the entire world while the sky turns orange, as if reflecting its own anguish and sorrow:

My dear home, I will always keep you very close in my dreams and imagination, till we cross paths again. With my everlasting love,

Yusuf

Editor’s Note: View a dramatic reading of excerpts from this essay, created by Southern Vermont for Palestine.