In Gaza, the towers were never just blocks of concrete and steel. They stood as witnesses to entire lives: to children’s laughter echoing in the hallways, to weddings celebrated on the upper floors, to summer nights when families gathered on the rooftops watching the sea and breathing in its breeze. Every floor was a book filled with stories, and every apartment a novel of love, hope, and struggle.

But suddenly, in a moment no one expected, the tower became a target. Short warning messages arrived: “You have minutes to evacuate.” As if the lives of dozens of families could be folded away so easily. Hearts trembled, steps rushed. Mothers gathered their children, fathers carried what documents or medicines they could, the elderly leaned on their sons’ shoulders. In the rush of fear, many left with nothing but keys to doors that no longer exist.

Then came the terrifying sound: missiles tearing through the night sky. The tower exploded, collapsing in an instant, a thick cloud of dust covering everything. What was once a safe home became rubble. What was once memory became debris: broken children’s toys, shredded diplomas, burned wedding photos, and coffee cups left on tables, stories unfinished.

By morning, families stood before the ruins. Entire households without shelter, children asking questions no parent could answer:
“Mama, where’s my room? Where’s my bed? When will we go back?”

But the room was gone, the roof had fallen, and only the open sky remained. The destruction of Gaza’s towers is not just the demolition of tall buildings—it is the erasure of collective memory, of spaces of safety and intimacy. It is an attempt to uproot people from their city. Yet Gazans know rubble cannot erase hope. Every broken stone becomes a witness to injustice, and every lost memory gives birth to new determination to endure.

Each shattered stone tells a story of resilience, each broken window carries echoes of laughter once alive between walls that are now gone. Beneath the rubble, new stories are born—written by children who do not know despair, by women who hide their tears to feed their children with patience, by men who stand tall despite losing everything.

Gaza is not only towers collapsing—it is a spirit that never breaks. It is a memory that cannot be erased, the whispered prayers of mothers in the depth of the night, the certainty that after everyinjustice, a dawn will rise. And between the rubble and the sea, the city keeps whispering: “I will not die. I will remain alive in your hearts, and I will remain a witness to the truth, no matter how long the night lasts.”

Alaa Alburai, Kufi Productions