Grief weighs heavily on the hearts of Gazans as memories scatter The Strip groans under continued bleeding and growing pain

She once had a small house, where the sound of love clung to the walls and the windows wore the light of joy. Her mornings began with the scent of coffee and warm conversations. Every corner held a story, every chair had a name, and every wall bore a memory.

Now, everything feels fragile, temporary—stripped of flavor and color. Tent after tent, faces worn down by tears. Each night she asks herself: Can memory embrace us when we no longer have a homeland? Is longing alone enough to keep us alive?

She holds an old photograph. She says nothing, but her eyes speak long conversations with those who are gone. She walks slowly in the evening, not searching for a face, but for a shadow that once walked beside her.

She remembers the laughter, the details of days that passed without being preserved as they deserved. The sea was once near, and sunset was a sacred time for rest. But now, even the sunset has grown dull—sneaking in quietly, leaving behind nothing but yearning.

A heavy silence.

She no longer cries. She no longer complains. She has learned that grief, when it stretches too long, turns into a heavy silence. She has also learned that those who lose everything ask for nothing—only that time might pause for a moment that was never completed.

Each night, she looks to the sky. She searches for something that resembles her—a lost star, or a cloud that arrived too late for the rain. Then she pulls up her torn blanket and falls asleep, hoping that in her dreams, that life which vanished might return—if only for a while.