In Gaza, Israel destroys our homes and forces us to burn its memories
Yesterday, I finally went to my sister Haya's house, nearly five months after it was destroyed by Israeli air strikes, to collect furniture and other items for use as firewood and whatever else had remained of the home.
I initially tried to avoid the pain of going there as I had formed rich memories in her house, which now lies in ruins. There were times when my sister and I would sit down together and chat over a cup of coffee or when I'd escape the crowded places around me and find in her home a quiet spot to write and sit with my thoughts.
Haya and her husband, Hammam, had a small flower and home decor shop on the main floor of their building. Their house was full of beautiful details, which reminded me of a small art museum.
There was harmony between the purple sofas, beige carpets, and white curtains. There was a corner for natural flowers and another for peasant embroidery art handmade by Haya. Their children's room had a tree-shaped bookshelf on the wall. And there was a large dining table that became my favourite place to write.
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On 15 May, the five-story building was hit with an intense wave of air strikes on al-Wehda street, a densely populated area in central Gaza City. The bombardment took place nearly two years to the day after Israel's deadly massacre in May 2021 that killed at least 44 Palestinian civilians.
Haya, Hammam, and their children were lucky to have fled to the south before their building was targeted. Twenty-five members of Hammam's family were trapped inside for 15 days during the Israeli incursion into the neighbourhood.
Only one person survived, while the bodies of the others remain buried under the rubble due to a lack of adequate civil defence capabilities in northern Gaza.
Distant memories
I was just stepping out of the shower when we received the news about Hammam's relatives. I joined my family in the living room, where they sat in frightening silence. Their pale faces scared me.
I often think of how our memories in Gaza resemble olive trees - deep-rooted and tough to uproot despite the painful cost of resistance
"Who was killed?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Haya's house, filled with the people, was bombed," my mother muttered painfully. "May Allah pour His wrath on Israel." I went back to the bathroom and wept for our fate, which seemed to be filled with endless loss.
Weeks after Israel's incursion into the neighbourhood, I tried to avoid passing by the street. I didn't want to accept the reality that the house was gone, that the kind people who lived there were trapped beneath the rubble, and that every moment I spent there was now just a memory. I often think of how our memories in Gaza resemble olive trees - deep-rooted and tough to uproot despite the painful cost of resistance.
But my family, like most Palestinians in Gaza, especially those who remained in the north, depend entirely on firewood for cooking and boiling water, as cooking gas has not entered Gaza since October last year.
Many people collect wood from the remains of their destroyed homes or cut down trees in the streets.
Some even use their clothes and furniture to make a fire, while others buy firewood if they can. For my family, we first used our old furniture and then bought some firewood. But now, even buying firewood has become difficult, as the war has dragged on for more than a year.
Going to Haya's house was my only option.
It felt draining because it was my first time going there, not to visit or share a cup of coffee or write, but to gather what was left of the destroyed house.
I went with two friends so that if something were to happen to one of us, the others could help. This war has taught us not to do anything alone - if you're killed, at least someone will know.
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We entered the rubble through a neighbour's partly destroyed house. For a moment, I couldn't move as a flashback hit me like a wave, overwhelming and painful. Every memory of that house played before me like scenes from a distant movie.
I heard the whispers, laughter, tears, and conversations that once filled this place. I felt like I was in a nightmare until my friend Wissam's excited voice snapped me back to reality - he'd found big pieces of wood.
We dug deeper into the rubble, searching for more. It was a strange mix of emotions: bitterness as I stumbled upon clothes, photo albums, and broken pieces of furniture, and a sense of grief for the people who were still trapped under the debris, perhaps just metres below us.
Becoming numb
My heartbeat was racing whenever I touched any piece of furniture, my mind processing that the place that once felt like home was now reduced to rubble. But I couldn't hide the slight sense of relief with every item or piece of wood we found, as though we were unearthing buried treasure.
Even though the house was totally destroyed, I kept searching for things that could never be found, like the chair I used to sit on, the large mirror with the embroidered frame hung in the living room, the family photo that once greeted me in the corridor, and other irreplaceable pieces.
We moved quickly. This war has taught us in Gaza to always be ready for the next strike and always prepare to flee.
My heart pounded in my chest as we stood on the wreckage, the air thick with the dust of destruction. I imagined the debris above could crash down at any moment. I felt a cold sweat on my back, fearing we would be bombed as the Israeli drones always bomb the destroyed houses, claiming resistance fighters were hiding in the rubble.
We stopped after five hours because the night was falling. I finally noticed my hands and clothes blooded from the shreds of glass and stone. The sight of the blood shocked me, not because of the pain - I hadn't even felt it - but because it made me realise how numb I had become to the devastation around me.
On my way home on a cart full of wood, people stared at us, their eyes filled with envy or desperation.
"You won't need to buy wood for months," one man said, eyeing the cart as it were filled with gold. A woman approached us. "There is not a single piece of wood in my house," she said desperately. "I've been searching for hours in the streets with no luck; please give me wood so I can cook for my children."
I gave her some, but I couldn't explain that it wasn't just firewood - it was a lifetime of memories.
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