Israel turned a beautiful existence into a charred nightmare.

Israeli F-16 rockets destroyed a four-generation property that was once alive with family gatherings.

Dodging massacre after massacre, a family realizes that no place in Gaza is safe.

Israeli forces invaded and ransacked a home, leaving behind destruction, graffiti, and excrement.

In a second everything can change, and it did for my family when Israel bombed our neighborhood.

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

The sun will rise again, and we refuse to become refugees again. This is our home and our land.

It’s hard to stay focused on the future when your living circumstances are in limbo, food is scarce, and you haven’t bathed.

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

This place, where a wall can burst in, a table fly and spin, glass shatter faster than a flinch?

I feel stranded between two worlds.

The West Bank is part of my country and is so near, and yet so far.