The Price of a Memory 💔🕊️
Before the war, beads were my sanctuary. I used to weave them into bracelets and charms—small, colorful tokens of love for my friends and teachers. Each bead held a piece of our laughter, a shared secret, and a promise that we would always be together. 🤍
But today, those classroom seats are empty. Many of my dear friends are no longer with us. They are gone, but their presence still lingers—a soft, painful echo circling my soul. 🕊️😟
Yesterday, I went to a shop in Deir Al-Balah, desperate to buy some beads. I didn't want them to play with; I wanted to create something to honor the memories of my lost friends, a way to keep them close when the world feels so hollow. 🥺
I was met with a brutal reality. The price had jumped from $15 to $70—an impossible sum in these times. 😭
I walked away empty-handed, my heart sinking with every step. It wasn't just about the beads. It was the crushing realization that even the tools for my grief have been priced out of reach. I couldn't afford to honor them. I couldn't afford to express my love. 💔
I returned home with nothing in my hands, but a heavy, aching heart. The war has stolen so much, and now, it feels as though it is even stealing our right to grieve, to remember, and to hold onto the beauty of those we’ve lost. 🥀❤️🩹