A Tale of Gaza’s Open Wound: Will the People’s Broken Hearts Heal?
Hope is scarce in a land where death has become routine. Every time the bombs fall, I feel Gaza loses another piece of its spirit.I wonder when-or if-the broken hearts of this strip’s people can ever heal.
My Gaza, my homeland, has turned into an open wound-bleeding, screaming without response. Two years since the last conflict, I am used to scenes of destruction and despair, but some images still pierce my heart: hungry people fighting over scraps of food; mothers sobbing while holding their frail children; men clutching broken fragments of their homes like shattered mementos.
Since October 2023, Israeli bombardments have shown no pause. These attacks have claimed more than 67,000 lives and injured approximately 169,000 people. Entire neighborhoods have been reduced to ashes. Hundreds of thousands of families fled toward Al-Rashid coastal street with whatever they could carry from their homes.
They are moving southward-not toward safety but from one certain death to another yet unrevealed face. This displacement feels endless; whispers drift through the air about a future Gaza where israeli settlements rise amid our ruins and “corridors” carve through our land-as if Gaza itself is a sacrificial lamb being lead to slaughter.
I too had to choose. On the fourth day of the war, I sent my mother, daughters-in-law and children south-to what was supposed to be safe ground. My two brothers, sister and I stayed behind clinging to our home in Tel al-Hawa neighborhood in western Gaza. That night more than a thousand Israeli bombs lit up the sky red as buildings collapsed like human bodies.
Sitting amid roaring explosions that night,I was sure it was the end. By morning our neighborhood had vanished from maps altogether-families scavenging rubble for any photos or small items that might remind them of home. I saw a man carrying a door on his shoulder as if it were priceless treasure.The same day we decided to flee south ourselves leaving everything behind.Today I live in Cairo but my heart remains in Gaza-the memory etched forever.
In February when news came that families returned temporarily under ceasefire,I thought at last light appeared at tunnel’s end.When seeing tents still shelter those whose hearts beat with hope,I told myself someday Gazans will rebuild all taken away-and maybe I’ll help brick by brick.But that momentary hope soon faded again like before.
After nearly seven months,the same streets became scenes again-for new displacement under equally fierce bombardment but with wearier,wounded faces.Al-Rashid coastal street was more crowded than ever.Cars bent beneath roofs doors-and anything owners clung desperately onto.Many walked barefoot under blazing sun.Children so exhausted they no longer cried lay face down on dust.Mothers wept trying soothe them with sips or stale bread crumbs.
I saw a man pushing his frail elderly mother in metal cart repeating tearfully “Where do we hide? There’s nowhere.”My friend Samer Abu Samra sent his family south but stayed behind.He told me days ago,”I couldn’t leave home without saying goodbye.I remain guarding what walls stand and pictures still hanging.”He added,”I sleep under half-collapsed roofs hearing planes overhead-but refuse be like those who left uncertain return.”His voice wavered,”Sometimes feels I’m losing sanity-but worse fear is emptying Gaza’s streets.”Yet he knew soon he must join crowds on Al-Rashid street too.
Umm Ahmed now living with five children in Khan younis spoke through tears,”We fled midnight.I took only kids’ clothes and sick son’s medicine box.””The road was hell.People ran as if world ended.Didn’t look back knowing heart would break.”her voice trembling she said,”My husband is still there-I don’t know if I’ll see him again.”Living now in tent,she said,”Life hasn’t improved-clean water scarce food rarer.My youngest wakes crying hunger nights,and all I’ve got is dry bread piece for him.My wish: one night without missiles,wake morning feeling alive drinking cool water.”
Two years on,and broken faces,destroyed homes plus cracked hearts grow heavier.I’ve come to understand that Gaza has become permanent stage for exile: skies always aflame,the ground always scalding,the people always fleeing-and its future fading continually.For those who keep walking Al-Rashid street,no escape exists-only endless flight from one death toward next.Still some strive keep hope alive.Repeat ”Return return return” almost prayer-like teaching children as last lifeline connecting them life.But unlike them,I cannot share such optimism.Hope here remains painfully unreachable.Where bombs fall repeatedly,Gaza sheds yet more pieces its soul.and whether or when this shattered spirit will heal remains unknown.
