On the muddy roads of displacement, Gazans continue their journey amid the rubble, as if walking over their wounds rather than the ground. Children cling to their mothers’ hands, dragging small suitcases that carry nothing but remnants of a stolen life. Their steps race alongside fear, accompanied only by the echoes of screams behind them and collapsing ruins with every memory.

The pain weighs on their hearts more heavily than their luggage, appearing on withered faces and in eyes brimming with despair. There is no home to shelter them, no roof to protect them—only tattered tents or abandoned corners attempting to embrace them. Many spend the nights hoping to return, yet reality mocks their dreams, carving out new paths of loss.

Dreams Beneath the Rubble

Silently, oppression consumes them, as they watch their dreams buried under debris and their lives wasted in waiting. No justice lifts their burdens, no caring hand eases the weight of tragedy. Only sorrow sits beside them, sharing with them the dry bread and brackish water, reminding them daily of what has been lost.

Between the moans of hunger and the whistling wind, their bodies wither like parched branches. Children without milk, elders without medicine, and women carrying double burdens between fear of tomorrow and helplessness in the present. They walk the edge of life, sustaining themselves on patience—but even patience is close to running out.

Yet, amid the devastation, small flashes of hope remain. A child’s eye glimmers with a fleeting smile, or a hand reaches out in generosity despite poverty. These sparks, however faint, carry the secret of their survival, as if telling the world they are still here—and that displacement, though it oppresses them, will never erase their humanity.