Our Home that Once Laughed, Now Lies Silent beneath the Rubble
By Shaimaa Eid
We froze in place. We could not comprehend what we had just heard. Could it be that the house we grew up in had vanished?
After two years of nightmare, and after it seemed that the ceasefire agreement would finally put an end to the bloodshed that drowned Gaza, we eagerly awaited the moment we could return to our home in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood.
That home we had left in haste, after trying, during a previous truce, with whatever strength and patience we had left, to clean it from the remnants of shelling and prepare it once again for life. We believed the ceasefire might bring a sense of safety, that we could reclaim a fragment of our days.
But only a few hours passed before we received the heartbreaking news. One of our neighbors, among the first to return to the northern part of the Strip after the withdrawal of military vehicles, called us with a trembling voice and said, “Allah compensate you, your house is nothing but rubble, ruins, a heap of sand.”
We froze in place. We could not comprehend what we had just heard. Could it be that the house we grew up in had vanished? Could memories be erased so quickly?
I went myself to see, to make sure it was not another nightmare. But the neighborhood was no longer the same; the alleys we once knew by heart no longer existed. As for the house, it was nothing more than a heap of rubble, where metal was tangled with concrete and sand.
I tried to recognize a corner, a window, a single tile that once bore witness to our days—but I found nothing. They did not leave us even a memory. They obliterated the entire block, bulldozing most of it until it became a flat, featureless land.
I stood amidst the ruins, overwhelmed by an immense emptiness. A wave of deep sorrow swept over me, as if I had lost a part of myself with every shattered stone. I recalled the stories of the Tatars and Mongols in history books, how they left cities in ruins. I never imagined I would live through the same scene on our own land. But this time, we are the ones living history—our homes have become numbers on lists of the destroyed.
Before me lay torn photo fragments, burned books, and children’s toys buried beneath the rubble. I tried to find just one thing to prove that we had been here, but there was nothing, as if our existence had been completely erased.
When I remembered the smell of my mother’s bread in the morning, my siblings’ laughter, our family gatherings, my uncle’s visits, and our simple evening conversations, I felt the memories slipping away like dust through my fingers.
That destruction was not only the demolition of stones and walls, but an attempt to erase memory and annihilate humanity. Yet those who think they can break our will are mistaken. We are the children of this land, and we know that staying here comes at a price—that patience and perseverance are our only life path.
Yes, the pain was harsh and the shock was deep. But amidst the rubble, a desire to rise again grew inside me. I told myself: we must rebuild—not merely to recover what we lost, but to build something worthy of remaining. We will rebuild Gaza; we will restore our home in Sheikh Radwan; and we will never forget our other home in the village of Zarnouqa, within occupied Palestine, which we carry in our memory as a symbol of identity and roots.
Liberation is not granted; it is seized through sacrifice and determination. We are the owners of the land and the bearers of the cause, and Palestine demands daily patience and an unbreakable will. We will not allow smoke and rubble to define our existence. We will rearrange the stones anew and plant seeds of hope on this soil from which we have long been deprived.
I know the path of reconstruction is long and arduous, but it is the only way to prove that we are still here. Every stone we lay will be a testament to survival, and every door we reopen will mark a new beginning. We will restore the neighborhood’s features, bring back the sounds of the streets, and create new life from the pain.
Walls may not bring back those we have lost, but building a new home is also an act of resistance—resistance against forgetting, against oppression, against the ongoing attempts to erase us. And so, before the rubble of Sheikh Radwan, I promise myself and my family that we will rebuild, preserve, and return. Reconstruction is not merely about restoring stones; it is the revival of a spirit that has chosen to live, despite everything.
(The Palestine Chronicle)
– Shaimaa Eid is a Gaza-based writer. She contributed this article to the Palestine Chronicle.
The views expressed in the article do not necessarily reflect the editorial position of The Palestine Chronicle.