In the heart of the rubble left by the occupation, a Gazan child sits gazing at the shattered walls of his home, as if they were witnesses to a childhood stolen from him. He contemplates the scattered stones, seeing in them his tiny toys, and feels that his laughter and the laughter of his siblings still linger in the cracks swallowed by war.

He recalls the wide courtyard of the house, where he once ran with his siblings beneath the shade of olive trees, hiding behind them and laughing with pure hearts. That place was their small homeland, a dream filled with love and serenity. Today, all that remains of those memories are charred branches and a heavy silence pressing upon the ruins.

Painful memories

The Gazan child still sees his home in dreams, with its simple wooden doors and the aroma of bread filling the kitchen each morning. He wishes he could turn back time, to relive those moments that once felt ordinary but now are the most precious treasures in his heart.

In moments of silence, he whispers to himself: “Why did they take our home? Why did they steal our laughter?” Questions far bigger than his tender age, yet they dwell within him, burdening his childhood. All he ever wished for was to live like other children—under a safe roof, going to school, and returning to his mother’s embrace without fear of bombs.

And yet, the child clings to his memories as though they were his final homeland. He feeds on nostalgia to draw strength, believing that the olive trees, steadfast with their deep roots, will forever symbolize his resilience. Just as those trees never broke, neither will his childlike spirit—even if the dream of return remains no more than an image coloring his pain.