A Road Without End

From the very first moment of the war, the machine of occupation was never satisfied with random bombings or direct killings.

It deliberately tore Gaza apart—geographically and psychologically—into two halves: north and south.

It turned the sea into fire, the roads into corridors of death,

and staying in the north became a sentence of extermination, while the south is an illusion of safety.

The instructions were clear, dropped from the sky through leaflets:

"Evacuate immediately to the south."

But to where?

To a south already overflowing with its people and the displaced?

A south that had never been spared from massacres?

A south that turned into a forest of tents,

where there is no shelter, no water, no medicine, no electricity, not even the shade of a tree to shield from the burning sun or the cold of night?

In the north, the bombing was even more intense.

Orders of evacuation fell again and again,

as if those who lived there were less deserving of life,

as if the houses there were unworthy of remaining,

as if the memories there had to be erased.

And so, displacement became the only option… but it was an impossible one.

Not everyone could leave.

The cost of reaching the south could exceed $2,000,

and even those who managed to pay did not escape the pain.

For pain cannot be bought or sold. It is carried on shoulders, hidden in eyes, buried in chests.

Entire families were forced to walk from the north to the south,

on a journey that stretched over 15 continuous hours.

They walked in fear, under bombardment,

on shattered roads, between rubble,

carrying whatever they could on their backs:

blankets, bags of flour, children’s photos, keys to homes they would never return to.

They carried their children, asleep from exhaustion,

they carried their memories,

they carried the faces of loved ones who were gone,

they carried a pain that cannot be spoken, cannot be written, cannot be forgotten.

Tears walked before their steps.

Children clung to their mothers, crying: “Mama, I’m tired, I don’t want to walk anymore.”

And mothers tried to calm them, their voices choked with tears: “Hold on, my love… just a little longer.”

Meanwhile, fathers walked in silence, hiding their brokenness behind weary faces,

but their eyes screamed: “Where does this road end?”

Everywhere, the same phrases echoed like a collective cry:

“God have mercy on our home.”

“Where are we supposed to go?”

“Lord, protect us.”

The sounds of displacement were a mixture of sobs, groans, and the pleas of thirsty children—

sounds that melt hearts,

sounds that stand as witnesses to unbearable pain.

Imagine yourself walking this path:

each step heavier than the last,

each glance backward shattering your heart,

each moment ahead without direction, without guarantee, without a clear end.

You arrive in the south, only to find yourself standing in the open.

No house, no tent, no one waiting for you—

just barren land, and a sky that still rains fire.

Your child looks at you and asks: “Where will we sleep?”