As the genocide in Gaza continues and every part of it is
destroyed—including my neighborhood, my old house, and my new one—I often find
myself clinging to memories of the past. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, a way
to shield myself from the horrors I see and hear every day. I return often to
the memory of my family gathered in the front garden of our house, after the
scorching sun had slipped below the horizon and the sweet breeze of a summer
night began to stir. My father would go out to buy ice cream, and we’d sit
together—laughing, talking, sipping sweet mint tea—without a care in the world.
That memory keeps flashing before my eyes as the genocide
unfolds. The serenity of that time—I never imagined I could lose any of it. I
thought that memory would remain sweet forever. I clung to it. But now, it only
brings pain.
The lemon tree, its sweet aroma filling the spring air.
The little fountain my father built in the center of the
house.
The tall tree that annoyed my mother every autumn,
shedding its leaves all over the garden and into the street.
The engraved paintings on the walls.
The street I hated walking through.
The neighbors’ houses.
The neighbors.
All gone?
I deny it most of the time. Every detail was a part of
me.
How can they take parts
of us, one by one?
