Since the ceasefire came into effect, I’ve been searching for a way out of all the horrors that surrounded us in Gaza, but I can’t find one.

As the guns fell silent, my mind filled with the image of the disaster and my memory was flooded with pictures of the people I loved who were killed in the war. My heart began to bleed with the pain of loss.

Two years of genocide left no room for mourning what the war had taken from us. Even grief itself became a luxury we could not afford. I had no choice but to survive each time – to get up, face another day and resist the thought of an end hovering above us every moment.

As for me, I am still living in the same tent I fled to two years ago. A worn-out tent that has lost its colour, a mirror of our exhausted souls, faded and lost between what we’ve lost and what can never be recovered.

Life in the tents: A long wait beneath the sky

Two years have passed, with their freezing winters and burning summers and the tents of Gaza still stand like weary bodies struggling against time.

In winter, the ground beneath them turns into thick mud that sticks to feet, soaks blankets and dishes and fills the nights with the sound of children shivering as raindrops leak through torn roofs and fall on their faces. In the morning, people step out in muddy shoes, trying to dry what remains of their clothes, while the cold wind plays with the tattered tents.

In summer, the tents become closed ovens. The heat is so intense it’s almost impossible to breathe and the air feels heavier than stone. People lay their blankets outside, searching for a breath of air, but the sun is merciless and the dust never settles. The air smells of melting plastic and mothers keep complaining about the lack of water, broken fans and no electricity.

These tents are no longer temporary shelters. They have become........

© Pearls and Irritations