By: A Genocide survivor It was five o'clock in the afternoon when my phone rang, breaking the silence. On the screen, my mother's name appeared, crying loudly, her voice trembling. "They bombed the building... they were all killed...". Her words screamed out like successive stabs to the heart, struggling to arrange them between her broken sobs. In an instant, all meanings of life were shattered. My brother, his sons and daughters... How? When? Who will gather their remains? Who will bury them? Heavy questions, like a storm, battered my head, scattering its cells and causing me to fall to the ground along with my phone, accompanied by a scream that echoed throughout the house, a scream of pain that left me with no strength to stand. My fist began to pound the ground without me realizing it. My wife quickly picked up my phone and spoke to my mother, comforting her as tears streamed from her eyes. Then she came to console me in our painful affliction, calling her two brothers to support me. From the depths of this pain and the coldness of my body, my memory returned to a nightmare I had at dawn on the war on Gaza. In my dream, I saw myself standing on the roof of my house, looking through a hole created by a rocket that had penetrated my family's building. A cry for help echoed from beneath the rubble. I had no idea then that reality would be even more cruel and terrifying than that nightmare. I received the news of my brother's wife's survival, having sustained burns all over her body, and of their eldest son's survival from the massacre. I thanked God, and my heart ached for the martyrs and for those who remained alive without support to heal their wounds and embrace their pain. I called a cousin and my family members in the city, asking them to honor our martyrs. But they were quick to respond to their duty, along with my nephew. This was because my family had been displaced to the south since the beginning of the war. As for me, my mother, and my older sister, we took a route outside the Strip, searching for the safety we couldn't find in our land. I called my father, who had received news of the massacre while he was making his way alone from the Mawasi area of ​​Khan Yunis to Deir al-Balah. His voice trembled with the tears of a father broken by separation. But his faith in God's will and destiny gave me a boost of patience and steadfastness, and he advised me to be a support for my mother and older sister. With a heart full of certainty that I would soon meet again in my homeland, I ended the call to call my mother again, to tell her that I was coming to pick her up immediately. My mother was in another city, a three-hour drive away. I prepared to travel there, and my two cousins ​​insisted on accompanying me, as if they were cradling my broken heart in their chests. We waited at the bus station until we left at 9:15 PM. On the way, we were inundated with messages and calls of condolence. We arrived home around midnight. My mother greeted us with a shattered heart and a body from which the soul had been ripped. I hugged her tightly, kissed her head and hands, and at that moment, our eyes caught sight of the television screen. One of the news stations was broadcasting scenes of the massacre and the efforts to recover the martyrs. But I was shocked to realize that my mother, from the moment she received the news of the tragedy until we arrived, had been alone, with no one by her side. I wondered how she could endure seven hours alone in pain, without any hug to comfort her broken soul and soothe her aching heart. My mother got ready to come back with us. Our steps toward the bus stop, only a few minutes away, were heavy, as if they were dragging the world's pain behind them. In painful silence, the bus picked us up. The road was lonely and long, and it seemed endless. Our souls were torn apart by grief and pain until we arrived home at four in the morning. We sat around the dining table, surrounded by heavy silence, as if it were a silent funeral. A lump in our throats held our breath, and we were unable to eat anything. After the dawn prayer, I left my mother in her bed, hoping she could escape the pain of the tragedy. But sleep didn’t visit her eyelids, and she tossed and turned with a body exhausted by grief and pain, and eyes like burning coals from the intensity of her crying. I wasn’t in the best of circumstances, as sleep eluded me for long nights after the tragedy, preceded by three terrifying nights. As soon as I laid my head on my pillow, my breath suddenly stopped, as if a huge rock had been placed on my chest, forcing me to sit on the edge of the bed in the hope that my breath would return. My older sister arrived, and we hugged each other tightly, each of us searching for the scent of our brother in the other. We shed tears that burned away what remained of my strength. The moment of meeting between my mother and sister was no less cruel; rather, it was a storm of grief that destroyed all their fortresses of patience. I left them to face this pain together, hoping that crying might extinguish some of the flames of grief that burned within them. As for me, the storm inside me didn't subside. I was torn apart, searching for a place that would swallow the sound of my collapse, a place where no one would see me, because my duty was to remain strong and coherent in front of everyone. I struggled to remain coherent, even though I wasn’t feeling well at all. The second day of the tragedy began in a gloomy manner, filled with the bitterness of loss and the sorrow of being away from family and homeland. In light of this pain, I began searching news sites and social media outlets that reported the massacre and the targeting of my brother's apartment, clinging to every detail, until I received painful images that had not been published in any media outlet. I saw their bodies fly out of the apartment and land thirty meters away from the family building. My eldest niece was beheaded, her body dripping with blood, while the bodies of her sisters were covered with concrete blocks, and I examined their wounds. As for the youngest daughter, her body wasn't found until the second day of the massacre, in the neighbors' building. I saw my nephew, his blood dripping from his head hitting the wall of the neighbors' kitchen. My brother's body lay in the hands of the paramedics below the family building. I saw my brother's wife, next to her husband lying in the ambulance, praying to God for the safety of her family. These are unforgettable moments of pain. We received relatives and friends who came to my home to offer their condolences and comfort. This place, which is not ours, has become a refuge for grieving souls, but we stand together and support each other. The war has taken its toll on us all, leaving no one without a deep wound in their heart. Each of us has lost a precious part of our lives: our family, relatives, friends—the list goes on and on. My brother, who is six years older than me, was a part of my being, ever present in my life. We were companions, bound together by a relationship woven of love and deep respect, sharing ideas and opinions, and fulfilling the duties of family and social life together. Our memories together were greater and deeper than this vast world. His spirit was a pure spring of love and giving, nourishing the hearts of those around him. He was a symbol of righteousness, filling the days with joy and tranquility with his presence, never refusing his parents a request, even for the simplest of matters. His words and actions were a living testimony to the depth of his feelings and the intensity of his devotion to them. His daughters are precious memories. They were a part of my life and my wife's. Our apartment was their second home, where they would gather and share conversations and laughter that delighted my heart. They were like gentle breezes that filled our home with happiness and joy. On my birthday, they had a special touch, surprising me with a cake and sweets made by their skillful hands. They were creative in preparing chocolate and biscuits with nuts, in preparation for the holidays. Those days were filled with love, happiness, and beauty. My younger nephew, the well-mannered, handsome, calm, and affectionate young man, his pure smile brought comfort, and his loving obedience was a balm to our hearts. He never hesitated to offer assistance to anyone in need. His departure leaves a void that can never be filled. He left a beautiful, lasting impression on our hearts. It was a family brimming with happiness and tranquility, shining with knowledge, good morals, and memorization of the Holy Quran. Each member left a mark of love and respect in the lives of all who knew them. Today, those memories have become a pain that gnaws at our hearts and an emptiness that no one can fill. They are gone, leaving behind a heartbreaking silence. Their laughter no longer echoes, nor does their presence remain, but their spirits remain in our hearts, and their voices are engraved in our memories. Farewell, to those who were a source of happiness and joy. We have lost you, and my heart has lost an irreplaceable part of it.