Nearly a month after our return, I still haven’t gone to see the ruins of our house in Al-Shuja’iyya. I cannot bear it.
What hope can there be for returning families who find nothing but destruction where their homes and shops used to be?
Living under flimsy tarps, family members sift flour for bugs, walk through sewage to fetch water, and wash clothes with frozen hands.
A tribute to all of the migrants, desperate for a better life.
Every young boy deserves to know where his home is.
I had heard stories about people living in the Gaza cemetery, and then I discovered it was true.
