The hours stretch on but we..

Close your eyes…

The house breathes around you

The laughter of your family mingles with the hum of the television—

The scent of coffee drifts from the kitchen—

Sunlight spills through the windows

tenderly brushing walls that hold every heartbeat—every memory.

For a fleeting moment—

life feels whole—fragile yet unforgettable.

And then—they came.

Merciless—stripped of warmth

They tore through the walls of your world.

Half your family shattered—

and with them every necessity vanished:

water, food, medicine, electricity, even the last of your money.

Hearts faltered—bodies trembled—

terror settled heavy over those who remained.

With a voice colder than stone—they pronounced:

“You have thirty minutes to leave… to nowhere.”

It was not an order—

it was a verdict etched into your very survival.

The home that once pulsed with joy

now howls in silence.

Its memories were stripped away—leaving it barren.

Every wall—every shadow—every breath stands witness to ruin.

What was once refuge has become

a monument to exile and fear.

This is not a scene from a movie.

It is a reflection of our lives.

And I know—you haven’t even closed your eyes—

because words alone are suffocating.

Perhaps you whispered:

“This is all too much—surely this is exaggerated!”

But I am not exaggerating.

In fact… I haven’t even begun.

We are here—living this—for 712 days straight.

In seven hundred and twelve days

children have been born—crying into the world beneath the bright lights of hospitals.

Students have graduated—

their caps soaring into open skies.

Someone has landed the job they once dreamed of.

People have married—

their laughter echoing through nights lit with joy.

Others have said their goodbyes—

their tears nearly spilling onto the streets.

Some have discovered love that burns gently in their hearts—

and others have lived their happiest—or last—days

if nothing else—in safety.

And then, there is us—the people of Gaza.

Seven hundred and twelve days of waiting—of fear—

of holding on to consciousness in a time when everything has been taken.

Do you know what it means to live that long without a homeland?

For more than half of those days—I had no home at all.

And in the rest, I stood before the ruins—

sometimes staring, sometimes bowing to the walls that still remember me—

apologizing, because once again, I was forced to leave them behind.

Seven hundred and twelve days without calm

without a single moment of peace.

Seven hundred and twelve days spent trying not to be forgotten—

not to be erased.

Seven hundred and twelve days fearing the clock itself—

terrified to look at the date—

because time dares to move forward while we remain still.

There was a life that was never meant to be lost in vain.

For nearly two years

I—and more than a million others—have lived through all of this.

And now—they expect us to endure the same again.

A scenario burned deep into my mind—

leaving no room for recovery, no pause for healing.

I try to ignore the whistling of warplanes and drones

as they hover overhead

dropping their bombs wherever they can—

forcing those who still refuse to forsake their homes, their homeland, to leave.

Gaza—emptied once again.

For a moment—silence feels like mercy.

Still, I find myself consumed by these moments all over again.

That is why I hold my ground here—to this day—in Gaza.

I wander through the house—lost in thought.

At dawn—I wake.

My desk is empty.

The shelves are bare.

In the corner—piles of displaced possessions lie stacked and silent.

I begin to weep again—

for I am forced to face this unbearable scene once more—

reliving the same heartbreak all over again.

I remember the last time I held the bed close—

tight and strange

as if I could keep everything from slipping away.

Now—I do nothing.

I just drift from room to room

gathering what’s left of my things

and tucking them into bags.

Even Layla and Ahmad—my childhood dolls—

the ones I once called my children

the ones who grew up with me—

found their way into a bag.

And then—I sleep

whispering prayers into the dark

begging God not to take our home.

Pleading for this nightmare to end.

For a moment—I imagine the house breathing again—

softly, like before.

Maybe life is to rise—to fall—to break.

Maybe it’s also to heal—to keep moving

even when the dust of shattered homes and lost streets clings to you.

There is no final refuge

no endless calm—

only the forward pull of time

urging us to stand

shake the debris from our skin

and step forward again.

In the end—that is all we can do.

And—inevitably—in that defiance—we survive.