In the Shuja’iyya neighborhood east of Gaza City, the muezzin’s call to prayer no longer reaches as it once did, as the Grand Mosque was destroyed in hours of Israel’s continuous bombing. Among the rubble, dozens of families live separate stories, but they share a common theme: the search for life under fire.

Although destruction looms over every corner, small scenes of life remain: the smell of bread baking on a wood fire among the rubble, the sounds of children trying to play with empty cans, and a neighbor who insists on greeting his neighbor every morning even though the doors are no longer there.

These simple details, scattered among the ruins, show that Gaza still clings to some semblance of life amid the machinery of death.

A family trapped between two destroyed houses

In a narrow corner between two cracked walls lives Abu Rami’s family of seven. After their home was demolished, they refused to flee south, fearing greater loss in the unknown.

Rami’s mother says:

Every night we sleep to the sound of planes, our children’s blankets are dust, and their breakfast is a piece of dry bread, but we have chosen to stay here, where our neighbors know us, even if there is nothing left of our home.

A school turned into a camp in Shuja’iyya, Gaza City

In one school, like many others, more than 90 displaced families are crammed into classrooms. The blackboard that was once used for math is now used to list the names of missing children.
Walid, one of the displaced persons, says:

There are more than 40 people in each classroom. We sleep close together and don’t know how to get through the night. Water is distributed by the drop, and there is barely enough food for half of us.

Children make toys out of rubble

On the rubble of a residential building in the Al-Ramal neighborhood, three children were playing with empty metal cans, pushing them with their feet as if they were small cars. Their laughter seemed strange amid the scene.

The mother of one of the children, who lost her husband a few weeks ago, whispered:

I try to let them play… I don’t want them to live in constant fear, even though the war has stolen their childhood.

A doctor without tools

Dr. Sami never leaves the Al-Shifa Medical Complex. He is an orthopedic surgeon who has been working non-stop for weeks. He recounts:

Sometimes we perform operations without full anesthesia. I can’t forget the children’s screams. We are breaking all the rules of medicine, but we have no choice. Even we sleep in the corridors next to the patients.

The scene at the temporary market in Shuja’iyya, Gaza City

On Al-Wahda Street, vegetable sellers have set up a small market on the ruins of a collapsed building. Some of them are selling three eggplants or a small bag of onions.

Abu Samir, a 60-year-old vendor who lost his shop, says:

I sell whatever I can find so that I feel alive. Everyone who buys from me says, ‘May God give you patience.’ Selling has become more like consolation than commerce.

Gaza today is not just a besieged geography, but a mosaic of individual stories: a mother searching for her children on lists, a child making a toy out of scrap metal, a doctor fighting death with his bare hands. These small details, hidden among the rubble, are what truly tell the story of Gazans’ daily lives under bombardment.

Featured image via the Canary

By Alaa Shamali

This post was originally published on Canary.