After The War Came Another.

At sunset, I was sitting inside a metal box dragged by a car —

one of Gaza’s strange means of transport since the war began.

I was returning to the place I now call home,

passing through Salah al-Din Street.

Each time the vehicle moved, my back hit the iron, as if my body were carrying the fatigue of the whole war.

A young man climbed in.

He began talking about the country’s broken life —

a circle of exhaustion among passengers.

One said he had been living on the street for seven days.

Another replied, “We’re all on the street, brother.

Who among us isn’t?”

Then an old man said,

“Your home is your homeland.

As long as there’s a house, there’s a homeland.”

His words stayed with me.

Lately, I feel my mind can no longer hold on.

I ask myself:

What did we do to deserve two years of total pain?

Why has life become endless like this?

What confuses me most

is how these people keep going.

How have more than two million souls survived this far?

Though I live the same life,

I can’t find an answer.

I’ve grown to hate questions.

Everything around me seems to ask one.

Too many questions, no answers.

Even when I try to escape them,

they return —

in the faces of people asking,

“Do you think? Do you think?”

I hate that I’m here,

because I once wished for a life of rest —

not one of running and fear.

Most of my time now is spent watching scenes

from before October 7, 23.

It feels like watching the lives of strangers.

I see pictures of Gaza before the war

and can’t believe it was ever like that.

My mind refuses to accept what is.

It tricks me into believing I’m elsewhere,

that I’ll return to Gaza as it was.

The war ended —

but if only it had ended fear with it,

and betrayal,

and brought back those who left,

and the innocence of children,

and the house,

and me.