The Electronic Intifada 26 February 2025
A mother cooks over an open fire amid the rubble of Jabaliya refugee camp in Gaza’s north. (Omar Ashtawy / APA Images)
“Bassam, hold your sister’s hand tightly. Don’t let go.”
My mother’s voice trembled – not just from the cold, but from something deeper, something that felt like a fear that had never left us. I held the hand of Malak – my 12-year-old sister – and tried to appear strong, though I had never felt weaker in my life.
We had left Deir al-Balah in the middle of Gaza at dawn on 27 January, to make our way back to the Beit Lahiya Project – the large residential complex where we had lived – or whatever remained of it. We couldn’t take everything with us; we barely had the strength to carry our small tent.
So my father stayed behind, waiting for us to find a place suitable for the family.
We walked for eight hours, stepping over rubble, through streets that no longer looked like streets, past walls that had turned to dust. I knew the way to our home well, but today, there was no path, only endless destruction.
My mother clutched her clothes tightly, as if trying to embrace herself. Malak walked beside me in silence, afraid to ask the question that had been haunting her.
“What if we don’t find our house?”
As we approached the al-Israa neighborhood in the central Gaza Strip, I saw my mother quicken her pace, then suddenly stop.
I knew we had arrived. But there was nothing left.
No doors, no walls, not even an overturned piece of furniture. Just a vast hole where our home used to stand.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My eyes searched desperately for something familiar, any proof that we had once lived here.
But there was nothing, only emptiness.
I looked at my mother, who stood motionless, staring at the ruins as if struggling to comprehend them. Malak didn’t say a word.
She simply sat on the ground amidst the wreckage, resting her head on her knees.
“This isn’t our home… this isn’t our home…” she whispered, barely audible.
Together
I ran toward the rubble, digging through the broken concrete, lifting shattered stones, searching for anything, anything at all. My hands sifted through dust and debris until they touched something soft.
Carefully, I pulled it out.
It was my old notebook.
Covered in war’s dust, its edges torn, but unmistakably mine. My fingers trembled as I flipped through its pages, my eyes landing on words I had written two years ago – when our house was still a home, when life still felt normal.
“Today, I sat with my mother and father in the living room. Malak was drawing in her little sketchbook, and I was studying for my exam. The electricity was out, as usual, but the house was warm. Nothing in the world feels safer than having a roof over your head.”
I closed my eyes, feeling like I was falling into a bottomless abyss.
Behind me, I heard my mother’s voice, hoarse and fragile. When I turned, she was staring at the notebook in my hands.
“Even memories didn’t survive,” she murmured.
I couldn’t find the words to respond. I turned to Malak, who was tracing a small circle on the ground with a stone.
I watched her, puzzled, until she looked up and asked in a tired voice, “Bassam, do you think if we plant something here, it will grow?”
I didn’t know what to say. I glanced around. There was nothing but ruins.
But I didn’t want to crush her hope. So I whispered, “Maybe… if we give it enough time.”
That night, we had nowhere to go. We sat on the rubble – no roof, no walls, nothing but the sky above us.
The cold was merciless, and Malak shivered, though she said nothing.
My mother sat beside me, clutching the notebook, flipping through its pages as if trying to relive what had been lost.
That night, I realized something I didn’t want to believe. We hadn’t returned home. We had returned to a place that no longer existed.
Yet, despite everything – despite the pain, despite the destruction – we were still here.
Together.
Bassam Emad is a media student at Gaza’s Al-Aqsa University.
