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Dear friend.
I'm writing you a letter that I hope you will read while I'm still alive.
I wish you a happy and beautiful life,
better than mine is now.
I'd like to share with you my daily struggles:
destruction, ruin, and death
are consuming everything around me.
It's 6 am and I still haven't shut my eyes.
My body is tired
because of the noise of planes, rockets,
ambulances, and even the sound of my own thoughts,
the feeling that danger could come to my friends, my loved ones, or myself.
Sleeping in a tent is truly exhausting.
Every morning I wait in line for the public toilets,
listening to the stories of refugee women.
Then I go back to my tent
to put on makeup to hide the signs of fatigue and insomnia
that have appeared on my face.
I drink a cup of tea but the taste has become bland and foreign to me.
It used to accompany me gently in the mornings
and in my beautiful thoughts.
Then I put on my dress to go out,
the one that almost cost me my life when I went to get it
from the house in Abasan Kbira East of Khan Yunis
after we, along with over a million others, became refugees
at the Egyptian border.
Today we're all heading to Abassan.
We're going because...
I'm visiting our house,
which we thought been destroyed
but by God's grace it's only partially destroyed
but it's no longer the home we used to know
By God's grace, it's still standing.
I hope it stays that way and that we'll return one day, at the end of the war.
There's a lot of mess, I don't recognize my home anymore.
I forgot to tell you about my cat Reema.
She refused to follow me and stayed hidden in the house.
God, how I miss her, my home, and my old life there.
You know, I miss my appearance and my femininity.
Look at what I used to be and what I have become.
Let me tell you about our bustling market.
We're looking for some pieces of bread
which is more expensive than in Paris or London.
Even the canned goods are often expired.
Diseases and epidemics have spread.
People who don't die in bombings
die from disease, hunger, or oppression.
It is now 4 o'clock, in this timezone of war
I'm coming back from volunteering
at the service for refugee women.
I can only think about what might happen next.
Which makes me remember the worst from the past wars.
Especially the war of 2014,
when they bombed my house,
killed my father and 17 people from my family.
Despite the silence of the camp and my need to sleep,
the overcrowding and lack of privacy in the tent
and outside make everything uncomfortable.
But with the presence of my little devil Adam,
I feel loved, safe,
and I regain my hope for the future.
You cannot bear to listen to the news, but you cannot not listen either
because maybe tonight, we'll receive news of a ceasefire.
Unfortunately, tonight's news
is of the bombing of my sister Nora's house
and the death of her whole family except for her daughter Ghena,
who remained alive for two days under the rubble.
Everyone around me is in sorrow and suffering
but they hold on to hope of returning to their destroyed homes.
They're attached to their land and their identity
and refuse to relive the scenario of 1948.
Dear unknown friend,
Of course, I don't know you,
and don't know where or when you'll read this letter.
I forget to tell you, in the day I await the night,
either to sleep or to escape from this reality.
and at night I await the morning to feel safe.
It's a strange contrast between day and night.
I'm attaching to this letter an electronic memory.
It's a video of my life.
Now that's the only way to communicate with the world
outside of this place on the globe.
This corner of the world, which today is missing
all means of communication and transportation.
Believe me, my friend, I had a beautiful life in a beautiful city.
I love it for itself and for those who live there.
My advice to you: enjoy life.
Because life is beautiful
and war is ugly, truly ugly.
Omar!
Can anyone hear me?
Omar!
Nour?
Why did you come here? I told you to stay with your grandmother!
I want to help you find dad.
Help me? Come on.
You want to help me?
Keep calling your father. God willing, he'll answer you.
Stay here, don't move.
Omar!
Who are you? What are you doing here?
I'm gathering firewood. Who are you? What do you want?
Who am I? I'm the owner of the house!
Your house? This is where I gather wood, I come here every day.
I've never seen you.
Okay, just leave, get out of here!
- Come on, Uncle! - I'm coming!
- Did your dad answer? - Yes, but the phone died.
- Are you sure dad answered you? - Yes.
- What did he say? - Hello.
- Did he sound okay? - No.
Okay, that's enough. Stay here.
Wood guy!
- Wood guy! - What do you want?
- Wait a minute! - Yes, what?
When I yelled at you, I was lost. My brother is alive!
He's been under the rubble for two days, but he's alive.
How could he be alive? Are you feeling okay?
It's impossible that he's still alive, how do you know?
His daughter spoke to him, he said "Hello" but my phone's out of battery.
Call civil defense or give me your phone and I'll do it.
They won't come out here.
They're digging about a hundred martyrs out of the house over there.
They told me they had a bulldozer! Omar! Omar!
Listen to me! Listen to me! They're out of gasoline!
Take this! You lift there and I'll lift here.
It's getting too dangerous here, take the girl and let's go.
We'll come back tomorrow.
We'll come back! We'll come back!
Nour. We. We have to leave.
Let's go, Nour.
Nour! Do you feel that your father is still alive?
- Nour! Let's leave here. - My father is still alive.
I know he's still alive. I promise we'll come back tomorrow.
Scene 35, take one.
Three. Two. One. Action.
I am Ahmad Hassona from Gaza.
I have always dreamed of becoming a director.
I know that's a distant and unlikely dream.
Say you want to shoot a movie, how do you make it happen?
And where do you screen it?
There is not a single cinema in our country.
What drives you to confront our society and its leaders?
I have made many documentaries.
But I wanted to direct fictions that the whole world would watch.
I struggled and worked day and night
I wished there were 48 hours in the day
so I could write and assemble my team
I found actors who shared my goal
and the dream of screening this film in major festivals
of traveling and walking on the red carpet.
After four and a half years, the film was finally finished.
It was selected for a festival and won an award.
Neither my team nor I could travel with the film to receive the award.
We remained imprisoned in Gaza, deprived of our dreams.
The title of the film is "Istrupya," which means "Senseless loss."
Our greatest loss was not being able to see the film
in front of the audience on the big screen.
But I learned a lot and became even more committed to my dream.
My life became a marathon.
I was running after cinema, searching for films and funding.
Now my life has became a different kind of marathon.
Now I am running to save my family's lives and my own.
I run, hoping
to find food and drink for my children
who flee the bombings from one house to another.
Ahmad!
Are you okay?
Where are you?
Get out of there!
Are you okay?
Come, come.
I struggle to endure the things I see and hear.
Everything that is happening to us. Everything we are going through.
I have just lost my older brother
in a random bombing
next to his house.
What?
The whole tower?
Collapsed?
At that moment, I felt death catching up with us.
Our only chance of survival was luck. Our only chance
of escaping the rubble, the bombed houses, the ruins of the city.
Nowhere in Gaza is safe, especially in the north
where I currently live.
Here, no humanitarian aid, nor rescue,
nor civil protection arrives. All that comes are
bombs, fear, stress, and insecurity.
Now I wish there were only 12 hours in the day.
Time has become my enemy.
It offers me no respite.
My only priority is staying alive
running, gathering wood to make fire,
to cook and eat whatever you can find.
Forgive me, cinema.
I will put the camera aside and run with the others.
among the destroyed houses
For the moment I will abandon you, cinema, who
shows the hunger of a people.
Today is the first time I have heard the sound of a civilian airplane.
They call it the aid plane.
Planes fly overhead and the people follow them.
Including me,
to feed my children.
Are they coming?
Up there.
Boys!
Run!
There! That's it.
Give me a bag!
All this flour on the ground.
Isn't this tragic?
- As you can see, we're picking up flour and sand.
- That's all we have left to do.
We pick up whatever we find on the ground.
We have to eat.
Many emotions, thoughts that I can't express
about this war, which has ground us down.
Many details, difficult to hear.
All I can say is:
Cinema, forgive me.
Why do I always have a bag of clothes?
Because we might be bombed, or have to leave
or there could be a leaflet drop
telling us to evacuate, or a ground invasion.
You grab the bag and run.
One Thursday night at 1:07
I wake up, it seems like
the house is fine
and suddenly the whole house is in darkness.
Our things are flying everywhere. The cat flies with his basket,
People surrounded by debris everywhere.
You can’t do anything, there's no time to cry, to react. It's impossible.
In that moment all I want is to save myself.
I get out, I run. A neighbour grabs me and takes me into his house.
I scream as if it were a dream, an unreal nightmare.
Since that day, whenever I wake up
I see myself sitting in my house and I imagine...
I imagine myself at home.
Sleeping in the living room
even though it’s very hot.
Since we’ve been here,
sometimes I go to bed early because I am afraid that suddenly
even though the house seems fine,
the darkness will come back and it will start again.
Do you know where the others are?
Mum!
I’m always trying to keep busy.
Painting a lot, studying, reading and writing.
I do all this to relieve the stress.
I am alive.
There are always drones making a buzzing sound.
They are always above our heads when we sleep, study, dance,...
When I dance, I always put on my headphones and turn on the music.
Suddenly, I have a flashback
my brain stops because of the drones.
My thoughts scatter.
So you take refuge in your headphones.
Where should we go?
Are you alone, or are there people in the street?
We left the park and we want to go to another street.
Wait.
Oh, my God.
Should we go to Khalil's?
Go to Khalil's.
How can we get there? Is it safe?
Go to Khalil's.
With God's help, go quickly.
We're leaving Farah's place.
Come back, come back.
Go into any house, get inside.
Why did you go out under the bombs?
Walk, take your brother's hand.
What's wrong, Yasmine?
Why did you go outside?
Are you there?
We're at the top of the street.
God protect us.
Quickly, quickly.
Get into the first house.
We're in front of Khalil's.
Have you arrived?
-They're not here. -Why?
Did they go out?
If Khalil's family isn't there, go back home.
Maybe the door is open.
Shahin, open the door.
Open the door.
Yasmine what's happening?
We're in Khalil's house.
And I'm the idiot who let you go out.
We're at Khalil's.
Get in, get inside.
There is no strength or power but from God.
Dear God, what can I do about this war?
Nothing has ever stopped me from doing stand-up.
Even the war.
War or no war
I will take my shower and do the show.
Damn, look at that queue.
It doesn't matter. Even if I have to wait all day,
I need to take my shower before the show.
Hello? Yes, I'm coming.
Yes, I finally took my shower. Yes, I'm coming.
Get ready. I'm coming.
Ok. See you in a bit.
I will do the best stand-up ever.
God.
Amazing.
It's not just that
I'm going to do stand-up
And where? In the place most dear to me.
In Al Nuseirat.
Oh. Nuseirat, a pain in the heart
More than 200 dead in one hour.
I'm coming to perform.
There's no performance stronger than this.
Thank you.
We must not block the arm,
because afterwards we need to be able to move it.
Since we became refugees, I haven't seen my friends again.
When the bombing starts,
my mother panics in the camp
She drops everything she's carrying, letting it fall and break
When she's inside, she rushes outside.
When she's outside, she runs back in.
She breaks everything.
When the bombs fell, we fled the house.
We didn't know where to go, we stayed in the middle of the street.
All the buildings were falling down.
An ambulance told us to leave the street.
Our mother grabbed us and we started running.
My little brother is one year old.
He can only say "daddy"
and make the sound of an ambulance.
My mother said to my aunt
"I want to write my children's names on their arms."
While she was doing it
I asked her why.
She started crying.
When mom wrote on me, she was crying.
And so was I.
My mother also wrote my name on my body.
If they bomb us, we'll be in pieces.
I don't want them to write on my body.
I don't want them to gather my pieces.
What have we decided to make the film about?
Writing on the bodies
No! The story of my brother and the ambulance.
The writing on the bodies is better.
And you Hassan, what do you think?
Do what you want, as long as I'm the hero.
When my mother wrote our names on my brother's and my body
I couldn't sleep.
I ended up rubbing it off.
I wanted t o rub off my brother's. He asked me why,
I told him "mom wanted me too"
so you can sleep
because I know you're very sensitive.
Make a small movement and then take a picture.
And take your hand away.
No. That's too much.
We start here.
No, you can't move it like that.
You move him, you take your hand away and you tell him to take the photo.
Move him.
Photo. Take a photo.
Take a photo.
Now, we're going to zoom in,
you need to move the camera from here downwards.
Slowly.
Zoom in a little more.
Like that we get a close-up on his face.
Move aside and let me out.
Mom wrote on my arm.
She's afraid for us because of the planes.
If they bomb us and kill us
we'll be identified.
from our names written on our bodies.
Are mom and dad afraid of the planes?
And you? Are you scared?
I don't like ambulances.
Why are you rubbing it off?
Mom wrote it
in case we die.
I'll erase it for you so you can sleep.
Ever since mom wrote it
I've been having nightmares.
Give me the rock, Maya.
Give it to me, my darling.
Give me one.
One more.
I'm going to get some water
If I find some, I'll charge my phone
and see if there's any bread,
and while I'm at it, I'll see if I can find some food.
Goodbye.
There's no more?
Is there a space to charge my phone here?
-Is there any chance of charging it? -Give it to me, I'll check.
Come back in an hour.
Keep it, I'll be back in an hour.
Alright, come back later.
Take care of it.
Alright.
Too bad for the bread today.
Oh well.
No more water?
Hello.
Sorry, there's no way to charge it.
- Not possible? - No.
Any space left?
All taken.
Thanks.
Goodbye.
- Hello - Hello
Professor Ali?
I was one of your students two years ago.
- That's right, that's right. - Do you need anything?
No thank you, my friend,
I have everything I need.
But if you need anything,
I'm here.
Thank you, my friend.
Here lies Kamal Youssef Teacher, Martyred 12/01/2024
On the 11th of November 2023
it got too dangerous.
We decided to leave Gaza,
and head North.
My mother said to take only the essentials.
We would have to walk a lot and could not be overburdened.
I looked at my bookshelf.
What is heavier than my grief?
I didn’t know which books to take.
The ones I had read and cherished
or the ones that might lighten my days.
I took nothing.
We didn’t want to overburden ourselves.
Yet I took three suitcases,
heavier than any books.
I still remember that moment
as we walked under the sun,
past the soldiers and
how I carried that heavy burden
because we couldn't get tired or drop a single thing.
I’m very surprised that we survived.
It's as if those days are no longer part of my life.
One strange dream follows another, and wakes me up.
It's as if I were living in my books, guilty of leaving them behind.
Especially 'The Woman from Tantoria'.
It’s the first thing I should have taken
but I felt it would bring bad luck.
Leaving Gaza in a crowd
reminds me of what happens in the book
when they were forced to leave the village of Tantura,
when the occupation forced them to flee,
leaving all their belongings behind,
in 1948.
I didn't take it because in the book they couldn’t return.
And I want to return.
I feel like I’m in a book.
I miss the sea, like Ruqqaya does.
Ruqqaya, the woman in the novel, a daughter of the sea
was forced from her village.
We are the same.
Who am I? I'm a daughter of the sea, forced to become a refugee
I miss the sea.
I am Ala'a. Why have I become Ruqqaya?
Who decided to trap me inside the book
until the sky freezes
and to make me live every day away from my city of Gaza, my sea, and my books?
Ruqqaya grew up far from her home,
she died oppressed
and never returned.
When I think back to mother saying "don't overburden yourself"
the instruction that made me leave all my books behind
I catch myself laughing.
What is heavier than oppression?
How could I have thought for an instant that my books weighed more?
What happened ?
How come I woke up in a body bag?
How did I end up in this bag?
What country? What life?
What happened to me yesterday?
Remember what you did yesterday.
Yesterday, I was walking down the street.
I was looking at our life, what it had become.
There I met my friend
We sat on the edge of the camp
with no work, no occupation.
We were happy to still be alive.
God, where were we, and where are we?
Then, I chopped wood feverishly.
I completely destroyed it.
I took out all my frustrations on it.
We cooked, ate
and then Karim, what did you do?
I went to see the sea.
Nothing remains of this city,
except the sea.
That being said, I returned to my tent.
I was exhausted.
I wanted to sleep a little.
I had neither mattress, nor pillow,
nor blanket.
Leaving our homes,
we couldn't take anything with us.
I see myself leaving the tent and stepping out.
Free washing and burial for the deceased.
When I took the body bag,
someone stopped me
and told me it's forbidden to take one of these bags.
I replied: if I become a martyr, will one be returned to me?
He said yes.
Let me then enjoy it while I'm alive,
and not just after my death.
It's as if you feel yourself going from Hell to Heaven.
Abed!
Abed! What do you need?
I was targeted three times in 24 hours.
The first time my cousin and I were returning from Camp 5.
They attacked the house and we were buried in the wreckage.
I was wounded in the eye. An ambulance took me to the hospital.
Then we came back home.
My cousin arrived at the door and the attack began.
Suddenly, there was no more electricity,
debris fell on us like rain.
The place became very narrow. My cousin Khalid was close to me.
Suddenly, Khalid shouts "Mosab!"
The door handle was preventing him from breathing.
I tried to help him but I could only move the upper part of my body.
I tried to get him free from the door
but there were 3 meters of debris on top of us.
I couldn't imagine what was above us.
I thought it was doable but I wasn't able to.
I had my phone, I turned it on, my brother was near me.
I couldn't help them.
I started calling for help on the phone.
It's Samy, another cousin, talking to me.
Tell him we're coming slowly so the rubble doesn't fall on him.
We're coming boys we're coming!
Slowly, slowly.
When they heard my voice, they knew I was the only one still alive.
The civil defense started working.
They got me out first after an hour and a half.
Is anyone up there?
- No, nobody, Mosab. - My head is under pressure.
- Are you breathing normally? - I'm fine, I'm not injured.
Do you see that? If someone breaks it and removes this stone I can get out.
Ok, ok, one minute.
Mosab, who's next to you?
- Khalid? Is he dead? - Yes.
Khalid, my cousin, he was my childhood friend,
We were the same age.
We went to the same school from kindergarten to high school.
Thank God I wasn't injured, I could move and walk.
After going to the hospital and burying our martyrs,
I went to my uncle's house.
We sat down and had dinner together.
After a few moments,
we were terrified by the sound of an explosion.
I heard the explosion,
and suddenly we were buried under debris again.
A part of the mosque's roof fell on us.
The ground around us was completely destroyed.
Our martyrs were 8 children from my family,
my aunt and her husband,
my aunt's daughter and her 5-year-old daughter,
The third attack was the toughest of those 24 hours.
Thank God, come out. Let him wash his face.
- I can stand up, I can. - Ok, enough, leave him, leave him.
Do you want to make an opening there? The wall that supports the door,
you have to cut a meter off it.
We thank God you're alive.
When I came out,
the first thing I thought of was my father and mother.
When I saw them under the rubble They were beside me.
My mother, God bless her, had her head against mine.
My father's leg was near my head.
I could feel them.
When I came out, my brother and I started removing the debris.
To rescue my mother and father first, even though my sister, my niece,
my uncle, my aunt,
and five other members of my family were under there too.
I miss my family, my home and my work.
Every stage of my life was demolished in front of my eyes.
It's God's will.
Today is one of the hardest days of my life.
Today, I saw my future slip through my hands.
What I held most dear in life is gone.
I have just lost the one I love.
Nour has gone.
We had agreed
that I would propose to her soon.
I didn't know
this would be our fate.
She's gone
and her family too.
We had agreed on the names of our children.
The first boy would be named Jad
and if it was a girl, Nathalie.
She's under the rubble.
You know what...
even they could not bring her out.
I feel such oppression.
I can't even cry.
God.
When will this war end?
I...
Come here
I can't help it, I love her.
Eat, Wanissa
Bakery
I'm Etimmad, director of the short film "Wanissa"
As I was filming,
I was crushed by a tragic event.
I learned about the death of my brother Nassem and his children.
It shattered me.
I was depressed
and I lost the desire to continue this work.
I was just starting but I couldn't continue filming.
I gave up, I felt alone, unable to do anything.
I had planned an ending
where Ahmad, my character, would die in a bombing
and Wanissa, the donkey, would return home alone.
I realized, after the tragedy, that I couldn't finish the story.
I could only finish it with my testimony.
Every thing of beauty is an offering to the gods.
And we are the offerings of the present time.
I became a writer with the wish to free myself from the traditional Palestinian narrative.
I chose to tell stories of our society and I decided
to talk about life, hope, and love.
Since the war, I didn't know if I could approach these subjects in the same way.
Displaced, I suddenly moved from one life to another
As if I had opened a door into another time...
full of tents and sad people,
dusty faces,
streets flooded with sewage.
The markets, the canned food, everything is too expensive.
You need a fortune just to find something to eat.
Today, I want to tell you a story. Are you ready?
I want to tell you the story of my grandfather Khaled.
When he fled Jaffa, he landed in Gaza.
He lived in tents
like the ones we live in today.
They displaced us from Jaffa to Gaza.
They displaced us from Gaza to other places
so that we would forget Jaffa.
But we will never forget.
I fell over when I picked up that brochure for you.
We have lost many relatives,
friends, family, a father.
The most painful thing is that they are just numbers now.
We know they had a past, dreams, a life, and a future.
But when the news comes, they tell us 100, 200 martyrs, a family wiped out,
Numbers. No recognition of the human beings.
What's that over there?
Can you see the fire?
I don't know when the war will end.
We will all need therapy to endure all the pain.
No one is okay.
Take me away, oh God, from this mournful garden.
I want to live in peace.
Hello Hana.
What if we filmed people from Khozaha
who have come home after the fighting?
These people have found their homes destroyed,
and they have very powerful testimonies.
Listen Hanaa, I was just at the camp
and I saw a man in the sea because he had no water to wash himself,
and women washing dishes in the sea.
Listen Hanaa, there's a story that no one has told yet.
a house was bombed and most of the bodies were removed from the rubble
Three are still under the rubble.
The family whose house it was
or rather the surviving members
wrote on the rubble that Omar, Abdulah, and Mazin are still buried underneath.
What do you think of this subject that noone has touched so far?
No Ahmad, I don't want any of the stories you've just proposed to me.
Listen, I'm looking for a subject that speaks of joy, happiness, hope, love
with music
Who makes music in Gaza, Ahmad?
Who makes music in Rafah?
Ahmad
Hello, how are you? What have you found?
I have the music you're looking for
Great
I'll call Saïd.
Hello, how are you?
-What are you doing these days? -Nothing, nothing.
Hey it's hot in here.
Hello everyone.
Thank you.
I'm against everything that's happening.
On October 7th, I said to myself "no no no".
No, it's not possible. It can't be real.
I reject despair, frustration, and ugliness.
When I decided to make a film during the war,
I chose people like me.
I chose you.
And what if we sang a song dedicated to love and hope?
Shall we?
Tomorrow we will forget the crises. They will pass
and we will see beautiful smiles again.
Tomorrow, we will forget the crises, they will pass
and we will see beautiful smiles again.
Forget and try to stay calm.
It's certain, the happy days will return.
Leave what's passed behind you.
Ahead of you, beautiful days and beautiful years await.
Amidst the greatest crises, we are all with you.
Pursue your dreams and build Palestine.
Tomorrow, we will forget the crises, they will pass
and we will see beautiful smiles again.
Forget and try to stay calm.
It's certain, the happy days will return.
In fact, I say no to all this despair.
If we're not convinced to say no to all of this...
As long as you have the power to say no,
then you can have hope.
If you don't insist, deep inside you
on saying no, even with those close to you,
It will be impossible.
I say no in order to be able to keep giving and to continue.
In certain situations, the children are sad. Why?
That becomes my responsibility. When I play or sing, it makes them happy.
So I do it.
Look how eager the children are. They're waiting for the whistle.
We want to laugh, rejoice, sing and express our emotions.
Yes, there are bombings and destruction
and many other things
that take us back to zero.
But that only increases our challenge to overcome.
Our ambition was as big as the world.
With great ambition, we dreamed, worked hard and planned.
Now my ambition is to find a safe place to sleep.
I've put my family and my sisters in a safe place.
Relax, oh sea.
We've been absent for a long time.
Send my regards
to Gaza, who raised us.
Rhaff, what would you say "No" to?
No to injustice, No to violence,
No to the violation of human rights
No! To everything that goes against humanity, joy, life...
against our smiles...
the smiles of our children
our dreams,
No to everything that destroys our hopes
No to everything that destroys us.
My cousin died. His name was Yehya.
Everyone was shocked.
It was night-time.
They went to bury him at 10 p.m. It was very late.
When we heard about his death, we were all in shock.
I was trapped under the rubble for 6 hours.
I was calling for my brothers and my mother.
I wanted my brothers and my mother.
I was shouting "Help us, Help us.
Voices were asking if there were any survivors.
I shouted: “Yes, I am Myriam, help me!”.
So the civil defence were able to locate me in my room.
They pulled me out after 6 hours.
My room was here, and that was my parents’ room
and my brother’s room was over there.
That was the kitchen, and that's the remains of the terrace...
That’s the bed from your room. Look, there.
Yes, that’s where they pulled me out from.
I am very afraid of the night. Night means bombings...
All those who died as martyrs, my friends and family.
We got the news of their deaths at night.
So, when night comes, it’s a nightmare.
The night scares me. I dont' like it. I don’t want to lose anyone else.
Whenever the sun goes down and the moon comes out, I lose somebody.
I was tidying my wardrobe when suddenly the rubble of the house fell on me.
I was scared for my mother and my whole family.
When they pulled me out,
I learned that my mother was dead. So were my sisters.
I'm still terrified.
My aunt is still under the rubble.
The noise of the rockets makes an unbearable pressure inside my ears.
The sound of the rockeks is very close.
When they are shooting, I feel it inside my ears and it hurts a lot.
I have many good memories of my life in this house,
of going to school and coming back home.
Mum used to take care of me, help me with my homework,
and give me advice...
I miss her a lot.
I also miss my sister,
terribly.
My grandfather, my aunt, family members...
In total 24 people died in the building...
I often wish that this war would stop.
Our mental health is ruined. We cannot live with this war any longer.
I have no news of my school friends.
Are they alive or dead?
Do they live in tents or houses? I don’t know.
I am exhausted.. I have lived through difficult days.
I can’t go on living like this...
We are so tired.
These are the sketches from my project.
This project was my hope of being recognized at university.
but they blew up the university about two weeks ago.
Now I don't have any project left anywhere
in the workshop, at university, or anywhere.
This is the following version
of the sketch from my graduation project
but the explosion blew all that away, from here to over there.
In Gaza, the only horizon we have is the sea.
And it's lucky that the sea exists.
Without it, I don't know what would become of us.
I managed to capture the waves, the waves of the sea of Gaza.
But it's been about five months since I last saw it.
Now I'm afraid to go there.
This one is called "Living Peace". It represents a dove.
Because every time we saw a white dove,
it gave us hope.
I covered them with pearls,
to express serenity.
Serenity comes from peace, the dove calls for peace.
But there is no more peace.
And anyway, there's no more possibility of a culture of peace.
The peace we have now is a murderous peace.
I was taking a risk with this one
with this idea of shards of ​​mirror
covering the form.
I was afraid this work would be misunderstood.
or that it might even be attacked, but on the contrary, people liked it
and it attracted a lot of attention.
This is a wide view of the city of Gaza
We often imagined Gaza from afar.
We imagined its beauty.
But if you look more closely at Gaza,
you'll see that it's charged with history.
The details of every stone, the old stones
the stones tell stories, the stories of our lives.
If you focus on each stone, you can read those stories there.
So I chose an overview of Gaza.
I was preparing to participate in exhibitions
and even in international exhibitions
but I could never have imagined that everything would be destroyed like this.
Even when the war started, I never imagined
that it would be like this.
But the war spared no one.
There is still hope, Ranin!
It's strange that hope is still here.
Majd, Majd. Where are you? Come out and play.
- Mum, I want to go and play with Oussama. - Where are you going to play? Don't go too far.
Mum, I don't understand.
You say "Don't play in front of the tent, your dad is sleeping"
"Don't go too far, I'm scared."
What can I do? Do you want me to play on the roof of the tent?
Just don't go far, that's all.
And bring back some boxes for the fire.
Good God, they're even bombing our tents.
Where can we go?
Are you okay, son?
Are you both okay?
Ah! Aren't you Seham? My wife?
Did you call me Seham? Your wife?
Do you really remember me?
Do you really remember me, Khaled?
Have you come back to us, Khaled?
Why? Where have I been?
Who is this boy?
This is your son Majd.
I was pregnant during the 2014 war.
An explosion made you lose your memory.
For we Palestinians, that is how it goes.
One explosion makes us leave
and another makes us return.
The explosion just now has woken you up.
The 2014 war?
But what year is it now?
Why are we in a tent?
Are we camping on the beach?
We have traveled a long way, it's true
but not to the beach.
We have taken refuge in Khan Younis.
Are you my son?
Can this be possible?
I closed my eyes
and when I open them again
I learn that I have a son as beautiful as you?
Have I awoken in the future or in the past?
Wasn't the Nakba in 1948?
Or has the order of numbers changed too?
Listen to me, Dad.
Oh, I love to hear that word... Dad
but I still have to get used to it.
This war is not like all the others.
This time there is nothing left.
They have destroyed everything.
Everything is gone.
Good God... Good God...
Everything is gone?
Tell me...
what else?
Mum took us and we fled to Khan Younis.
Everyone in the city was displaced.
And the Arabs? And the Muslims?
What is everyone doing?
I told you, Khaled
everything is gone.
It's as if the earth ceased to exist.
Everyone is just watching
Everything is gone.
It looks like there is no one left.
Everything is gone.
If everything is gone
then let’s go
back to where I was.
Where do you want to take us, Dad?
To a safe place?
I am dying of fear.
Let’s all lose our memories.
And forget everything.
No Khaled, we will never forget.
The safest thing is to stay together.
You know Seham, you are the only one I never forgot.
Every time I see you
I feel like my heart is going to explode.
Dad...
Every day, the siege.
Every day, we sing.
They destroy and we rebuild.
We are peaceful lovers of flowers and of the music of the rabab.
The child slowly learns to write.
We are the tide that has returned to raise up love and to raise the boats.
We are the sun that shines and illuminates the planets.
Every day, the siege, Every day, we sing.
They destroy and we rebuild.