The night in Gaza was unbearably long; it stretched endlessly until a single night became many. I slept on a mattress that felt a bit rough, yet I was fortunate to have found one after the hardship of displacement. To my right was a wall that spoke to me all night about death, and above me a five story building whose ceiling could collapse on my head at any moment. The wall also whispered, “Perhaps one day I will crumble on your face without warning.”
But I know the feeling of death, and of cold, because I am still a son of this city, and it has never left me. Its coldness seeps into me, making me feel uncovered even beneath the thick blanket I received after my body trembled for days on the ground at the beginning of the assault.
The constant fear of displacement and death, the hunger and the threat of dying from it, the confusion, and the endless tears falling from our torn hearts.

The weather in Italy is very cold colder than Gaza. But Gaza’s cold is mixed with pain, with the feeling that a person is stripped of their humanity. I sleep now in a dorm room with moderate heating, a clean bed, and a private bathroom whose door I no longer have to wait at every morning. In Gaza, I waited long at the bathroom door; it felt as if I lived there because of the ulcer in my colon.
That pain still surrounds me, and I remain suspended by my chest, tied to all those I left behind. Italy’s cold is a soft cold compared to the one that stripped me of myself the nights spent sleeping on the dirt, in a tent, waking up to a harsh sting or a tree blown by the wind crashing into the tent you spent all summer building to protect you from storms, only to find yourself empty and helpless in the face of pain.

Here, the night passes quickly, leaving me no space to truly feel my exhaustion. Yet I have cried a lot, walked a lot, and my chest has grown tighter. The difference was only one day: suddenly I found myself in lectures, studying, taking exams. How could I leave myself behind while all these things piled over me, while I remain trapped inside?
My heart still aches for what has passed. Many may think I’m fine, that my story ended somewhere between crowded streets and rushing cars. But the pain has taken on another form sharper, more ruthless.

I am still there. My story has not ended, and my voice has not died. Gaza continues to face death alone, and we must carve it into our memories because life moves frighteningly fast.
I am Esam. I write for myself, for my family, and for my people. I left Gaza, but Gaza has never left me.