We Carry the Ruins Within

I keep thinking about how Gaza used to feel before all this — the noise, the smells, the small things. Kids running in the streets, people chatting near shops… it all felt alive. Now when I walk the same roads, I don’t recognize them. It’s like the city lost its color. Everything is quiet, heavy… and it hurts to see it like this.

People say life goes on, and maybe it does — but not the same way. The war changed us in ways we can’t even explain. We try to live again, to smile, to rebuild, but deep inside, something is broken. You can’t lose a child, or a hand, or a home, and just go back to being “okay.” Sometimes I think… how can anyone stay the same after losing someone they love? You try to keep going, you smile maybe, you talk — but inside, it’s still bleeding. No one really heals from that. We just learn to hide it.

Even after people start their days, the ruins are still there. Houses that used to be full of laughter sit empty. Shops where neighbors once gathered are now just dust and broken walls. Kids try to play, but they are quiet, careful — like they know something could fall apart any second. Families wake up, try to eat, to work, to live… but the memories of what they lost are always with them. The city moves, people move… but the hurt stays.

You can’t see it from outside, but the pain is everywhere — in the quiet streets, in the empty corners. Even when the rubble is cleared, it doesn’t go away. People walk, try to live, but the memories stick with them, like shadows that never leave. Every corner, every little sound, even a smell, can bring back what was lost. You don’t just lose a house or a shop — you lose a piece of yourself, a sense of safety, a little bit of normal life. These scars stay inside, hidden. They come back in the quiet moments, at night, when you’re alone.

The city may rebuild, but inside, people carry pieces of what can never be restored.