Gaza, 5:45 a.m.

The siege had stripped even hunger of meaning. Still, that morning was absurdly gentle. A breeze slipped through shattered windows. My mother served carrot cake for my eldest’s birthday with no candles, no sprinkles, just chocolate over vegetables and quiet pretending. 

I left for work. South, toward Khan Younis, where locals warned a strike was coming. Forty-five minutes passed. Nothing. A distraction. They hit another home—the Kaware family. Nine killed after a grandmother was told she had 30 seconds. She called out. They came.

Then the missile.

Strikes lit Sheikh Redwan, Al-Nasr, Jalaa. I came home after athan, still fasting. Another explosion shattered the neighborhood. Glass rained. Chaos. I ran upstairs.

My eldest was in my mother’s arms. But my baby, I found her not by sight but by feeling. The room was dark, blood soaked the sheets. My flashlight caught her body. Breathing. Bleeding. I carried her to the bathtub filled with water saved for outages and washed the blood from her face. She cried, but I heard nothing. I was somewhere above myself, watching.

Three weeks later, she was evacuated. One of the “lucky” ones. A decade later, I still ask, like it’s a secret: “Did she survive?” Because some injuries don’t bleed. Some wounds just . . . remain.

I carry it with me like a stubborn ember, imagining Gaza still there, with the breakfast table waiting and my family’s laughter unfinished.

No siege can crush it, no massacre can erase it, no erasure can finish the job. What we carry . . . stays.

Gaza remembers. I remember. And I’m not done telling you.