“Bassam, hold your sister’s hand tightly. Don’t let go.”
My mother’s voice trembled – not just from the cold, but from something deeper, something that felt like a fear that had never left us. I held the hand of Malak – my 12-year-old sister – and tried to appear strong, though I had never felt weaker in my life.
We had left Deir al-Balah in the middle of Gaza at dawn on 27 January, to make our way back to the Beit Lahiya Project – the large residential complex where we had lived – or whatever remained of it. We couldn’t take everything with us; we barely had the strength to carry our small tent.
So my father stayed behind, waiting for us to find a place suitable for the family.
We walked for eight hours, stepping over rubble, through streets that no longer looked like streets, past walls that had turned to dust. I knew the way to our home well, but today, there was no path, only endless destruction.
My mother clutched her clothes tightly, as if trying to embrace herself. Malak walked beside me in silence, afraid to ask the question that had been haunting her.
“What if we don’t find our house?” …..more