ღUnder the blue skies of Gaza lie endless stretches of grey–a graveyard of once-loved homes. Rubble from one building blends into the next, making it impos꧂sible to tell where one ends and another begins.
Twenty-year-old Sanad walks from his makeshift shelter in Khan Yunis to Rafah, to see what remains of his five-story home. When the war began in October 2023, he and his family fled in fear for their lives. Just 12 hours after they left, their home w🐬as bombarded—while the structure was left standing, the home was hollowed out. In the second bombing, however, most of it turned to rubble.
“Everything is gone,” Sanad says in a video he posts on social media after he’s come to terms with reality that his home really is go꧋ne. His eyes ar𓂃e puffy and cheeks look flushed, but when he faces the camera, he shrugs.
“Eve𝓀rything is gone but all we can say is thank God for everything.”
As Sa𒈔nad treads through the one portion of the house which remains standing, barely, he finds some personal belongings, remnants🐲 of a happier time.
“This isn’t just a house. It’s a reminder of everything I’ve💎 lost and everything l’ve had to fight for since,” he says, “being here again is painful, but it also reminds me of the resilience and hope that have kept me going all these years.”
Amid the wreckage—broken pipes,🅺 ceiling fan blades, and splintered furniture—a copy of the Quran lies open. Its binding has come undone, and it’s missing most of its pages. Sanad picks it up gentဣly.
He looks around, his eyes fixing on the stairway—now leading to nowhere. He walks toward it and begins to climb. As he reaches the top, a scene unfolds before him—one that looks like a set from a dystopian, apocalyptic film. On♌ly this was the reality of Rafah.
Slain trees lie scattered among the ruins, their trunks broken like the city itself. Twisted metal peeks out from under the crumbled cement structures. The neighbourhood where Sanad once played football as a child is gone—reduced to dust and memories
With most of the house blown to bits, Sanad tries to salvage whatever he can. He digs through the debris, pulling🎃 out a few pairs of clothes—dusty jeans and some colourful shirts. When he and his family fled, they packed only what they could carry. For the past year and a ﷽half, they have been living off those few belongings.
His father sits atop a mound of rubble, patiently removing each misshapen piece, one by one. Even he doesn’t know what he’s searching for—perhaps a memory, a fragm♛ent of their past, aꦍnything that still feels like home.
“In the en🎉d we just took some wood for fire and clothes and then left,” Sanad says.
ಌThe twenty-year-old also finds something he perhaps would have preferred not to— a piece of the very bomb that destroyed his home.
Sanad Osama Al-Qadi is one of ten in his family. He once lived in a happy ho🌺me with his father, two brothers, ꧒sister, and their families. Life was normal then—he spent his days studying, dreaming of becoming a pharmacist one day.
For now, they return to Khan Yunis, clinging to the hope of rebuilding tꦑheir home. But Sanad doesn’t know how that will happen. There is 🍎no money, no manpower, no resources, no help. Even finding a meal each day is a struggle.
