Gaza… the memory that does not sleep through hunger, nor fall silent under bombardment
"The memory of the past for Gazans is drained under the weight of the ongoing brutal aggression Hunger is a test of survival in a time when the Strip suffers from a complete lack of the basic necessities of life"
In Gaza, sorrow needs no words — it lives in the eyes, is planted in the cracked walls, and embedded in the soil that has grown used to bidding loved ones farewell. Here, not a single day passes without loss, and not a single night without the sound of bombing that shakes the soul before it shakes the walls.
In every corner, there’s a story of a martyr, a mother searching for her children beneath the rubble, or a pair of eyes waiting for bread that never arrived.
Hunger is not just emptiness in the stomach — it is a daily test of survival. How can a child understand what it means to go to bed hungry? How do you explain that bread has become a postponed dream? The scent of food from neighbors’ homes — if it exists — becomes a stab in the heart of a helpless mother. Every meal here is eaten as though it were a possible farewell, every bite could be the last.
An Exhausted Memory
Gaza's memory is drained… bloated with pain. The streets no longer remember the names of their people, but they remember the sites of the strikes, the sounds of explosions, and the dates of death.
The Sea as a Witness to the Pain
Even the sea — Gaza’s only lung — has become a witness to the pain. It echoes the cries of mothers and swallows the screams of the trapped in a heavy silence. Places that once celebrated weddings are now draped in black — homes to coffins and farewells.
Time here is not measured by hours, but by the number of airstrikes and the loved ones lost without goodbye. There is no calendar in Gaza except for the faces of the martyrs. Eid arrives out of season, and joy lives in exile. Only blood knows the way — it flows in utter silence, telling the world that life here is not life, but resistance to remain alive.
And despite it all, Gaza still has a beating heart — a mother who prays, a child who dreams of a toy, and an olive tree that resists the fire. In the depths of this hell, there remains a small light called "dignity" — untouched by hunger, unbroken by shelling. It is the true memory of this place, the memory that never shatters… even if worn thin by pain.