The lights of Al-Rasheed Street. Photo: Noor Abu Mariam

I’m searching for a place that might hold me apart from this chaos or from the life that presses in from every side.

A life tied to this place is not what I want. All I want is to disappear and escape these streets that have become ingrained in my memory.

When I listen to the news and think about life before, an idea comes to my mind: to run away from here. Something is telling me I should escape to another country, a place that could help me heal. But at the same time, my heart asks, “What about the beautiful memories? Do you want to forget them? Do you want to walk down streets where you have no memories at all?

I want to walk through my city without fear.

I do not want to remember who was martyred at that square, who was injured here, and who was wounded there.

These scenes won’t leave my memory.

All I want is a place where I can create new memories.
It is the beautiful memories that weigh heavily on me now.

Coffee and patience

Just yesterday, I went to have a cup of Nescafé with sugar, and I told myself,
“I want to live this moment and not think about the exorbitant price the merchants have imposed.”

I drank it, and it instantly took me back to those mornings, from before, when I would wake up and have my coffee—Nescafé, with my own special mix of coffee, milk, and sugar.

I calmed myself with my usual phrase: “Those days will come back, just a little more patience.”

I feel like patience was made for us—the people of Gaza.
We know how to endure.
Do we only know how to endure?
We’ve been holding on for two years now.
The question that won’t leave me alone is: Will we continue to live at this same exhausting pace?

All the concepts I held onto before the war have changed.
Back then, adventure meant going to explore a new place in the southern part of the Strip, like Khan Younis. We’d spend a whole day in its wide streets and return via Al-Rasheed Street, gazing out at the lights of the beach and the corniche…

Now, adventure means walking for hours in the July heat just to find a single kilo of flour.

Concepts have changed. Life has changed.
The daily scenes force me to stretch my imagination,
to live in a world I paint with my wishes.
It comforts me to imagine a world of my own,
far from the heaviness of reality.

It helps me escape the heavy responsibilities that war has forced upon us.
My attempts at survival are too temporary.
They help for a time, then I must find a new way to keep going.

Grief came to me like a monster

Grief came to me like a monster, and I felt like my hands were tied.
The news came after I climbed the stairs home after a long, exhausting day.
I found so many of my loved ones gathered in my uncle’s apartment, crying,
making frantic phone calls.

At first, I didn’t understand. But then I heard someone say:
“Al-Shifa Hospital is…”
It was like that monster stabbed me with a knife.
I knew I had lost someone from my family.
In a voice trembling with fear, I asked: “Who?”

They answered: “Your aunt Nehad has been martyred.”

I couldn’t process the news, but I remained calm at first.
I had to tell my father…
How would I tell him that his sister had been killed?

I don’t know how I climbed the stairs to our apartment to face my family.
I kept repeating the news to myself—I still hadn’t grasped it.

I told my mother.
She cried out in a broken voice: “Nooooo…”

This new reality, it could not be.
But the news kept echoing in my head without pause,

I remained in that state for five days, until I finally realized—I would never see her again.
We would not visit her during Eid.
She would never sit on that couch again.
She would never smile at us again…

Her face is still etched in my eyes—and it will stay with me forever.
Loss, fear, and death have never left me since you departed, my dear aunt.
I can’t control my fear.

Aunt Nehad Mahmoud Abu Stita, killed by shrapnel near Al-Sousy Mosque. Art and photo: Noor Abu Mariam

Haunted by memories

Whenever I leave the house,
my mind is flooded with terrible images—
shrapnel flying, lifeless bodies, blood covering the streets.

And when I return home,
I pour out these haunting thoughts to my mother,
who tries to comfort me by saying, “Me too…”

But something still sits heavy on my heart—
something dark, feeding me negative energy and pain.

I’ve been trying to cope with it, reminding myself of my friend Lama’s words—
She survived the war and was evacuated with her family.
She used to tell me:
“Give yourself a chance. Don’t pressure yourself.”

Waiting for the butterfly

I know healing is painful—but it’s necessary.
I try to erase the bad memories, but they return every night before I sleep,
and a tear escapes, leaving me in a state no one should have to endure.

These hard nights continue.
I wake up, put on my clothes, and head to work like a robot.
I return home, prepare myself to cry,
then sleep—and repeat the same painful routine.

I used to escape to the rooftop,
to breathe in some fresh air…
Or to draw and write—until these words poured out of me:

O butterfly, stretch out your wings for me,
open them wide to infinity.
Steal me from the roots of my land—
but gently, don’t uproot the longing.
Leave it behind, so I can survive with ease.
Let go of this weary country.
Haven’t you grown tired of sunflowers?
Don’t you want to try roses and orchids?
I want to fly to everything that’s new.

I open my arms to fly like it’s my first time,
unaware of what exile means,
unfamiliar with longing.
Don’t bring me back here—
lest the causes of death consume me.
And here I am…
waiting for that butterfly.