In Gaza, displacement never ends — it returns again and again, just as tragedies echo in the ears of those who have forgotten how to cry. It’s as if the city was destined to become a suitcase, carried on the backs of its people whenever time and space grow too narrow. Families leave behind the remnants of their homes, taking with them nothing but souls worn thin by waiting, bags of stale bread, and a handful of memories.

Women walk forward, clutching their children, brushing dust off little faces that have known nothing of childhood but fear. In their eyes: a thousand words, a thousand stories, a thousand questions with no answers — gazes that seem like stifled messages, whispering what lips cannot utter: "How much longer?"

Gaza… a bleeding heart.

The images haunt them: a leaning wall, a burnt bed, a doll with a severed arm, a child’s scream carried away to somewhere unknown. Still, they walk. They share their bread and their sorrow. And on the edges of tattered tents, they trace silent prayers — ones only God can hear.

There, amid the rising smoke, Gaza stands. Not merely a place, but a bleeding heart. A voice refusing to be silenced. Every stone holds a name. Every alleyway bears witness to betrayal. Every breeze carries a cry for help.

The story is not only about destroyed homes — but about lives uprooted, hearts that pinned their hope to a tiny window, waiting for something — anything — resembling life… or at least, a moment of peace.

Gaza does not die, but weeps in silence. Gaza does not collapse, but bends down to lift a child from the rubble. Gaza does not flee, but bleeds standing tall.