
As the world wonders what the first thing Palestinians in Gaza might do after the ceasefire, I know the answer shared by so many here: we’re left with the haunting reality of sleeping each night fearing bombings at any moment. I’ve lost several family members, but I’m grateful that my mother, father, and siblings are still with me.
As soon as the ceasefire agreement came into effect, my mother, father, and two brothers rushed to check on our home. I was on edge, just waiting for a call: “Our home is still standing.” Everyone was eagerly waiting.
Everything turned upside down, and I couldn’t hold back my tears when I received a call from my brother, Mohammed. His voice was filled with anguish as he said, “Thank God, Ya Habibti.” I asked, “AlHamdulillah, our home is still standing?” But his reply shattered my heart: “Nothing, nothing, no building is still standing here, my sister, AlHamdulillah.” In that moment, everything changed for me; the hope I clung to crumbled into ashes. I found myself waiting for the ceasefire deal, eagerly anticipating our return home, but that brought a haunting question: What is the purpose of life when home is no longer there?
I just want to go home, even though it’s hard to call it that anymore. Our house has turned into rubble. I can’t understand how a place filled with countless memories could be reduced to ruins. How could the Israeli occupation dare to bomb it? Who allowed them to wipe out our entire block?
The footage revealing the massive destruction doesn’t represent even 1% of the devastating reality. It feels as if an earthquake has struck, obliterating everything.
I’ve lost everything that mattered to me. I long to return home—to kiss every corner, to hug the walls, to lie on my bed, and to tidy my room. I miss my room so much. I once had shoes to fill a store and clothes far beyond what one shop could hold. Now, I’m left with just one pair of shoes and two pieces of clothing.
I’ve kept my university books, despite my mother urging me to part with some. I cherish them and hope they’re still there under the rubble, though I wonder who can retrieve them for me. I truly want them back.
I just want to go back home—only to home. Words can’t capture the overwhelming feelings I’m experiencing right now. I feel an urge to cry for everything happening around me, struggling to accept that I’ve lost my home, and with it, I feel I have nothing left to lose.
My father, my hero, has worked tirelessly since my birth to ensure our future. Now at 60, he should be enjoying rest, yet his hard work feels in vain after losing everything—including our family’s home of five apartments, our second home, and our businesses. We are left homeless.
My mother, the soul of my soul, has always been my support. She carried burdens that felt heavier than mountains, enduring struggles throughout her life to stand beside us. With great care and thought, she selected each piece to adorn our home, choosing rare decorations, beautiful carpets, and precious furniture. In the blink of an eye, the Israeli occupation turned our three-floor building into rubble and ashes.
My dear sister Ansam persists in completing her education. Israel has denied her the opportunity to complete her secondary schooling, known as “Tawjihi” in Palestine. She prepared diligently, gathering all her books, sticky notes, pens, stickers, and everything related to her studies. It breaks my heart to see her dreams crushed under the weight of despair. With tears in her eyes and a heavy heart, she told me, “I need my stuff back; I will go there and dig with my own hands to retrieve them all.” Ansam’s dream remains simple: to continue her education for a better future.
My 3-year-old nephew, Yazan, has never failed to take my heart. He survived 15 months of the Israeli genocide. I cherished taking photos of him on our sofa, just to see his innocent smile light up. It’s heartbreaking to think that I may never capture those moments again after the Israeli army decided to crush our home.
Even though there is no real meaning to the ceasefire without having a home, at least the daily Israeli bloodshed of Palestinians has stopped, and for now, I can take to the streets to walk without the fear of being targeted—that a missile could strike me at any moment.
The Israeli war criminal Netanyahu thinks he breaks our will by destroying our home, but I refuse to lose hope and become homeless because I still have the keys.
Originally published in Quds News Network