In the heart of the Strip stands a ruined house, reduced to silent rubble that tells a story of pain. Nothing remains of its walls but fallen stones carrying the traces of a life extinguished by force. In this place, laughter once echoed at sunset, and the smell of bread filled the mornings, but all of that was extinguished under the weight of bombardment, leaving behind a void that wounds the heart more than words can.

Upon its ruins, its owners sit, weeping bitterly, as though mourning their very souls that departed with it. The house was not just a roof over their heads; it was a memory of childhood, a refuge from fear, and small dreams woven into its details. Now, every shattered corner reminds them of a laugh that has vanished or a picture lost among dust and smoke.

Those who once lived there feel as though they have been uprooted, their lives frozen at the moment the last wall collapsed. Their tears are not only grief for the stones but a cry for a history that was stolen, and for a safety that was meant to remain. Today, they are without a home, without the embrace of walls, facing the wind and the harsh night as strangers upon their own land.

Meanwhile, Tel Aviv persists in its obstinacy, waging a brutal aggression against the rightful owners of the land, as though it holds the right to erase them. As if stealing the land were not enough, it insists on erasing the memory and stripping Palestinians of the simplest of possessions: a home to shelter them and dignity to safeguard their humanity.

Yet despite the rubble, a spark of defiance remains alive in the hearts of the house’s family. Every fallen stone will remain a witness to an unforgettable injustice, and every tear shed will remain a promise to endure. The ruined house may be gone in body, but it will live on in spirit, a symbol of the land that never dies, no matter how long the night of aggression lasts.