A Day in Gaza

17/12/2023 - DAY 71

I reach for the door knob, but it is not there anymore. I look for it and I realize it might have

flown out the window. Instead, I kick the door and it slams into the wall, followed by a loud

thumping sound.

I step foot into the room. My childhood room. The room I have lived in all my life. When I

was 6, my walls were a light shade of pink, with fairies and butterflies. I had a white fluffy

beanbag next to a box of toys that belonged to me. Some belonged to my sister too. I used

to crisscross and play with them every night before bed. My sister would sneak in and we

would play

together.

But I grew up, and I became a teenager. I decided I was too cool for a pink room and a box

full of toys. So I changed the walls to a shade of grey, and I got rid of the beanbag and box

of toys.

Every week after school my friends would come over and we would sit on the ground and

eat lunch together. We would share the latest gossip and laugh so hard, tears came out of

our eyes.

My mother would wake me up every day by opening the window blinds. She would yell at me

to get up. I would hide under the blanket and cover my face. I would frustratedly say, "Please

close the window blinds I need 5 more minutes of sleep!"

But then I graduated high school. And I went to university. My friends started to come less.

And now I put my own alarm to wake up.

I turned my room into a study area. I studied and studied and studied. I studied on the

couch, on the ground, in the study area, and on my bed too. I became the first girl in STEM

to win the Best Student Award. I forced all this knowledge in my brain. Knowledge that is

almost wiped away by now. Did I only learn to forget?

I stand there, with dirt on my feet. And my nose is dripping blood. My hands are trembling.

And the tears have dried up on my face. My body is covered with wounds, but I feel nothing.

As I take a look around what once was my room, my heart aches.

All I see are remains. Remains of my room. My life. Everything I have ever known.

Everything that brought me to where I am today. I stand in this place, the only place that

witnessed my every phase. I have cried and laughed in this room. I got sick and I healed in

this room. I won and failed in this room. I grew up in this room.

I am not just the 22 year old woman that stands here today. But I am the 6 year old girl too.

And the 13 year old. And the 17 year old. I am every version of me that lived here.

 

I remember lying in bed, not being able to sleep, tossing and turning all night, and counting

the squares on the ceiling. I look up now, but there is no ceiling. It has exploded into pieces.

My bed has fallen apart. My study area became dust. The walls have withered away. The

ground is covered with rubble. Nothing is recognizable.

Anyone who sees this place will say it's nothing but bricks and stones. But I know this place

by heart. Every corner of this room belongs to me. Every corner speaks to me. I can still

smell the candle I used to light up before bed. I can still see every phase of my life flashing

before my eyes.

It's as if the room feels my presence. It's as if it's telling me "Where have you been? What

have they done to me?"

I take one more step and find a piece of paper that has been torn apart. I pick it up and

realize it's my Best Student Award.

I look at where once was my window. The window blinds are gone. I wish my mother would

wake me up just one last time.

They can bomb my room. They can take away all my possessions. But they can never take

away everything it made me to be. They can never take my memories. They can never take

the specialness away from this place.

You live all your life believing you have more time to spend in a place, or share more

memories with a person.

You think you will have more.

I take one last look and I tell myself to hold onto this moment so tightly.

I make sure to remember, that this the last memory I will ever have of this place. My room.

My childhood.

This is my life.

How can I say goodbye to my life?

And yet I still do.