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If I could deposit something in the Museum of Memories,
I would place a teddy bear ( دبدوب) .

At the beginning of the war in Gaza, before I was displaced, I was volunteering with a Turkish organization. I was helping distribute cash aid in refugee camps. One day, during a visit with a friend, I met a little girl named Fozia. She had a beautiful voice when reciting the Quran.

She told me, “If you like my voice, will you bring me a gift?”
At that time, I had nothing to give her, but I told her, “If I like it, I’ll bring you something tomorrow.”

After hearing her voice, I decided to buy her a teddy bear.
The next day, I went to the camp to give it to her, but I found that the camp had been bombed. Later, I learned that Fozia was one of the victims of that massacre.

I kept the teddy bear and named it Fozia.

When I was displaced, I couldn’t take it with me, and then my house was bombed too.
More than 9 months later, I returned to the ruins of my home , and I found the teddy bear, still there.

I believe this teddy bear is the most meaningful thing I could place in the museum, a symbol of innocence lost, and a memory that I will never forget.

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The occupation may have destroyed our houses, but it can never destroy the memories we held in.

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The occupation may have destroyed our houses, but it can never destroy the memories we held in.

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I would like to put a photo of the items that I managed to retrieve from my destroyed home. These items are: a pink desk lamp that was my companion during study sessions when the electricity was on, a black mug which I used to drink tea in whenever I read a novel or a book, a golden watch that was my gift to my youngest brother on his birthday, a pair of silver earrings I bought before the war to wear at my cousin's wedding, some educational certificates I received when I was diligent at school, and a photo album which includes our family pictures. These things, even simple, means a lot to me. They carry the scent of my room, my home. It is true that some objects can be friends, holding stories and memories that we do not want to forget. And when we lose them, we miss them. I am so happy that I could see some of my items again after more than a year. Now whenever I see them, I will feel that I am still at my home.

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The Joy of Success After Years of Hard Work.

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The Joy of Success After Years of Hard Work.

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Hello, my name is Saba Abu Gaza. I’m a 20-year-old Palestinian from Gaza and a second-year student at the Islamic University, majoring in English translation.

I would like to share with you a very special and joyful memory in my life: the day the results of the Tawjihi (high school final exams in Palestine) were announced. This day represents the outcome of 12 years of hard work and study in Gaza, and it was truly one of the happiest moments of my life.

On the morning of July 20, 2023, I received my results via SMS. I had scored 99.1% in the literary stream and was ranked third in my school in that section. I was overwhelmed with happiness and pride because I had worked so hard to reach that moment.

However, something funny happened that day. My father had accidentally typed my seat number incorrectly and received a message saying I had failed. He was shocked and confused until we discovered the mistake, which gave everyone a laugh in the end.

This memory is meaningful to me because it reminds me that hard work always pays off, and joy often follows long periods of effort. It also shows others that perseverance, even in a place like Gaza with many challenges, can lead to great success.

At the end of that day, we celebrated with a party filled with friends, laughter, and joy. It was a day I will always remember.

Whenever I feel tired or unmotivated, I think back to this day. It gives me the energy to keep going, to study, and to work hard because I know that one day I’ll have more moments like this one to celebrate.

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The place is gone, but our souls remain there.

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The place is gone, but our souls remain there.

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Every day, when I have nothing to do and no internet connection, I go to my gallery and look at my old pictures, my past, how I used to look, and how simple my life was.
Yesterday, I said I wanted to share a photo from the museum, and then I came across this one.
This picture filled me with sadness, disappointment, and anxiety. Not just because it's a memory of my home and room, which are now demolished, but because back then, I felt safe and comfortable.
This photo is full of my personal belongings, some I bought myself, others were gifts from friends: some who were martyred, others who were displaced inside or outside Gaza.
I chose to talk about the perfume.
This perfume was a gift from one of my closest friends on my birthday in 2023. I still remember what he told me:
"I want you to remember me and pray for me every time you use this perfume."
"كل ما ترش من العطر بدي إياك تدعيلي"
This friend is no longer with us. May his soul rest in peace.
With my broken heart, I pray that this war ends soon, so we can feel safe and comfortable again.
Can we?!

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There is a poem I wrote during Session 6 with Dr. Richard. I have since added and changed some words, and I would like to add it to the museum of memories. I hope it touches someone’s heart when they read it:

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There is a poem I wrote during Session 6 with Dr. Richard. I have since added and changed some words, and I would like to add it to the museum of memories. I hope it touches someone’s heart when they read it:

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I walk on rubble,

through streets emptied of life.

I fear the rain of rockets above,

and pray my soul won't leave my body.

I walk, hearing a child's cries,

and the hunger echoing from hollow guts. My eyes whisper: you are not alone, though the silence hits me like a stone.

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One day of this devastating genocide, my family and I, along with my paternal uncles' families had to sleep at nearby UNRWA school in a tiny room that was likely the storage room. It couldn't even fit all of us comfortably. If I got up in the dark to go to the school public --and often dirty-- restroom, I would accidentally step on each sleeping body in that crowded place.

In the middle of this process, the thought -"What am I doing here?"- suddenly popped into on my mind with the sound of non-stop bombing in the background. I pulled myself together and walked down the stairs, under an overwhelming number of drones filled the sky. It was one of the most tense and terrifying nights I have ever witnessed. You could tell that something was about to happen.

It was around 12 p.m. Everyone woke up, waiting for something worse than death. Sounds of shelling, gas bombs, and bullets echoed loudly. We stayed up all night--some praying for a calm morning, others crying. At 6 a.m, the sounds were getting much closer. The storage door was closed so we weren't aware of what was happening around us. As soon as we opened the door, it seemed that almost two-thirds of the refugees had escaped. We were terrified and shocked when we realized that the latest airstrike targeted the western building facing ours. Everyone was running and a heavy smell of blood and death was hanging in the air. Each one was trying to survive with his life, running towards the unknown, as if there was a warm and safe place was waiting to hug them. Martyrs lay along the way and injured people couldn't find someone to hold their empty hands.

There was unforgettable scenes that I couldn't delete from my heart and mind. A crying man was running while carrying the body of a baby covered with blood. She looked as though she were sleeping in peace. Another man was on the ground suffering from injury in his leg while begging anyone to hold his hand and help him lean on their shoulder, but unfortunately, everyone was too consumed by fear, thinking only of saving themselves.

I can learn hundreds of lessons from this heartbreaking experience, but the most powerful one was the disgusting realization of this unjust, hypocritical world preaches human rights on screen but abandons us in reality.

In the attached picture, my mother and I were running towards AL-Yemen-AL-Saeed Medical Complex , which its construction wasn't yet completed. While running, we realized that the bombs had been around us all night. Our neighbors' homes were destroyed and I remember a burning car in the middle of the road.

How can I possibly erase this from my heart?

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Semsem the Bird... He Wasn't Just a Bird, But a Living Memory!

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Semsem the Bird... He Wasn't Just a Bird, But a Living Memory!