My body lives in Turkey, but my mind is in Gaza with my family.

We are preparing for our forced emigration from Gaza to the Sinai Desert, or for our death. One or the other.

Following the news of the destruction of Al-Mukabarat Towers in northwest Gaza, I realize: memories don’t die; they just get hurt.

Even as the brutal Israeli retaliation began, I wanted nothing more than to return to my home and family in Gaza City.

Leaving Gaza saved my life, but now I live the agony of distance, and the stench of death reaches me even here.

I can’t keep pretending that I am strong enough to take it all in.

Gazans outside Gaza, as much as family members trapped inside, feel the terror of the bombardments on their homeland.

Palestinians, both in diaspora and in their own land, remain deprived of having a stable, safe home.

Surviving siege and wars is a blessing. Leaving both behind is a luxury.

Two Palestinians meet via social media and find strength in their communications.

The day my dad died was the darkest of my life. I lost my strength, I lost my life. But now I am working to make him proud, and save my country.

The world is a foreign land/I have her broken pieces in my hand.