Two years had passed since my feet last touched the ground of Salah Al-Din Street—the street I knew as well as the faces of my own family. It was once a quiet, familiar place, brimming with life: small houses leaning into one another, their windows open to the sound of children’s laughter, green fields stretching along its sides like a carpet of hope, and olive and palm trees that seemed to whisper, “Everything will remain.”

Small, shimmering memories welled up inside me: laughter shared with friends under dappled shadows along the road, children chasing light-hearted dreams without fear, the scent of wild sage and warm za’atar manaqeesh drifting from open windows, and the call of the morning vendor, whose voice seemed to wake the street itself. I remembered the smell of lemon trees from hidden gardens, and summer evenings when families gathered outside their homes, sharing stories as dusk fell. Each of these details shone in my memory like a truth. A whole world lived here… a world that never imagined it could be uprooted.

The walk I imagined was short in distance but immense in weight—a journey not across a city, but across years of silence. Though I still lived within its orbit, the street itself had become a ghost limb: a part of me I could no longer feel, yet whose absence ached. With every step, I hoped to feel the familiar texture of memory return beneath my feet, to hear the faint pulse of the life that had once hummed there.

But when I finally arrived, the dream collapsed in a single moment. All that lay before me was rubble stripped of spirit, ash that had swallowed every color, a life erased by death. The houses were gone as if they had never been, the green fields ripped away, the trees torn out by their roots, and the earth that once promised hope had hardened into a silence that knew no mercy.

In the heart of the wreckage, names were written on the ruins—the names of martyrs buried without grace. Many of the rescue machines had been destroyed in the bombardment, leaving rescue teams with too few tools to reach those trapped beneath the rubble. Bodies remained beneath the debris, lives cut short, dreams left incomplete… And scattered among the stones: small shoes like broken butterflies, school notebooks open to sentences frozen mid-word, dolls torn without remorse. Everything here cried out mutely—a life interrupted, dreams shattered before their shape could be seen. The silence itself had grown loud, a scream of pain that no one else heard, every stone holding a story untold, a life un-lived. That silence felt heavier than death… heavier than any tear that could be shed.

How did it feel for the man who built a home, only to watch it turn to the rubble? How does a farmer stand before the land he tended year after year, now lying barren—no scent of soil, no whisper of harvest? How does a father tell his son the school he loved is gone, that the garden where he played is now only a rumor in the rubble? How does a mother walk through the ghost of a playground, finding a small shoe, a torn notebook, a toy she once mended? How do neighbors look at one another, wordless, knowing the world they shared has vanished?

And all of it wrapped in a thick, soundless vacuum—no laughter, no running feet, no vendor’s call, no fragrance of coffee greeting the dawn. Everything was quiet. Empty.

And yet—from within the ruin surrounding me, a fragile, honest question rose: After all this waiting… after all this breaking… can the soul survive? Can a heart that has seen such devastation ever beat lightly again? Can this street, even now, whisper: Come back. There is still a place for you here?

I stood among the ruins, breath caught in my chest, searching for any trace of what once was. I felt the ache in every stone, every corner, every fragment of memory. But beneath it, I sensed something small and unbroken: my own heart, still beating. And a faint, stubborn light—a quiet voice within: I am still here. I can still walk. I can still love this life, despite everything.

Perhaps the street will never return as it was. Perhaps the houses will not be rebuilt, nor the trees grow tall again. But I will go on. I will walk through the wreckage, carrying memory, carrying grief, carrying hope. I will look for signs that life persists—a child’s fleeting smile, an olive leaf pressed in dust, a ray of sun finding its way through broken walls. Just one thing matters—the quiet certainty that my heart still beats with this land, and that life, even now, is worth living.

I am Aseel, a writer from Gaza, living amid genocide and famine. Your support can help my family survive.chuffed.org/project/138285-hel…

Help Sehwel family with their medical treatment

I'm Joe in the UK, I've been in touch with Aseel from the Sehwel family for over a year now and have been following their difficult struggle to afford medication, shelter and food in Gaza.

^Chuffed