The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
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Current Issue
A Day for Gaza
/ February 3, 2026
The Street That Refuses to Die
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
What I saw walking one block in Gaza.
Ali Skaik
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The Colorful Block in 2025.
(Ali Skaik)
This piece is part of A Day for Gaza, an initiative in which The Nation has turned over its website exclusively to voices from the Gaza Strip. You can find all of the work in the series here.
I used to know this block, the Colorful Block, by the sound of life.
Children’s laughter spilled from every doorway; men argued playfully over the price of tomatoes; my uncle’s supermarket—bright and packed with goods of every kind—glowed late into the night. The refrigerator hummed, the bulbs buzzed, and the air smelled like oranges and detergent.
That was before everything went dark.
When I came back after the ceasefire, I could barely recognize the street. The neighborhood, once painted in pinks, blues, and yellows to chase away the gloom of the blockade, had turned the color of dust. My uncle’s supermarket was only a blackened frame. Where the candy aisle once stood, a twisted shopping cart now lay half-buried in rubble.
A Day for Gaza
A Ceasefire in Name Only
Mohammed R. Mhawish
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Ali Skaik
A Catalog of Gaza’s Loss
Deema Hattab
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Asmaa Dwaima
What Gaza’s Photographers Have Seen
Huda Skaik
How to Survive in a House Without Walls
Rasha Abou Jalal
What Edward Said Teaches Us About Gaza
Alaa Alqaisi
What Happens to the Educators When the Schools Have Been Destroyed?
Ismail Nofal
At the Doorstep of Tomorrow
Engy Abdelal
“We Have Covered Events No Human Can Bear”
Ola Al Asi
People say the war has ended. But walking here, amid roofless rooms and doorways that open onto the sky, you understand: The war has only changed shape. The bombs have mostly stopped falling, but the silence that’s followed is its own kind of violence.
So I decided to try to breach the quiet, to walk this block—house to house, neighbor to neighbor—and ask people how they are living, what they are rebuilding, and what they are still carrying from the genocide that tried to erase us.
Current Issue
February 2026 Issue
“The war of fire ended. The cold war began.”
At the corner, Abdel Rahman Jebril, 33, stood beside what used to be his home, leaning on a stick. His left hand was wrapped in cloth, the fingers stiff.
“The suffering got worse after the ceasefire,” he said quietly. “The war of rockets ended, and the cold war began—a war that burns without weapons.”
His house was hit again and again until it collapsed completely, taking his dreams with it. Now he lives …
This affects the entire country.
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The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Magazine
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Log In
Search
Subscribe
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Current Issue
A Day for Gaza
/ February 3, 2026
The Street That Refuses to Die
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
What I saw walking one block in Gaza.
Ali Skaik
Share
Copy Link
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Ad Policy
The Colorful Block in 2025.
(Ali Skaik)
This piece is part of A Day for Gaza, an initiative in which The Nation has turned over its website exclusively to voices from the Gaza Strip. You can find all of the work in the series here.
I used to know this block, the Colorful Block, by the sound of life.
Children’s laughter spilled from every doorway; men argued playfully over the price of tomatoes; my uncle’s supermarket—bright and packed with goods of every kind—glowed late into the night. The refrigerator hummed, the bulbs buzzed, and the air smelled like oranges and detergent.
That was before everything went dark.
When I came back after the ceasefire, I could barely recognize the street. The neighborhood, once painted in pinks, blues, and yellows to chase away the gloom of the blockade, had turned the color of dust. My uncle’s supermarket was only a blackened frame. Where the candy aisle once stood, a twisted shopping cart now lay half-buried in rubble.
A Day for Gaza
A Ceasefire in Name Only
Mohammed R. Mhawish
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Ali Skaik
A Catalog of Gaza’s Loss
Deema Hattab
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Asmaa Dwaima
What Gaza’s Photographers Have Seen
Huda Skaik
How to Survive in a House Without Walls
Rasha Abou Jalal
What Edward Said Teaches Us About Gaza
Alaa Alqaisi
What Happens to the Educators When the Schools Have Been Destroyed?
Ismail Nofal
At the Doorstep of Tomorrow
Engy Abdelal
“We Have Covered Events No Human Can Bear”
Ola Al Asi
People say the war has ended. But walking here, amid roofless rooms and doorways that open onto the sky, you understand: The war has only changed shape. The bombs have mostly stopped falling, but the silence that’s followed is its own kind of violence.
So I decided to try to breach the quiet, to walk this block—house to house, neighbor to neighbor—and ask people how they are living, what they are rebuilding, and what they are still carrying from the genocide that tried to erase us.
Current Issue
February 2026 Issue
“The war of fire ended. The cold war began.”
At the corner, Abdel Rahman Jebril, 33, stood beside what used to be his home, leaning on a stick. His left hand was wrapped in cloth, the fingers stiff.
“The suffering got worse after the ceasefire,” he said quietly. “The war of rockets ended, and the cold war began—a war that burns without weapons.”
His house was hit again and again until it collapsed completely, taking his dreams with it. Now he lives …
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
This affects the entire country.
Log In
Email *
Password *
Remember Me
Forgot Your Password?
Log In
New to The Nation? Subscribe
Print subscriber? Activate your online access
Skip to content Skip to footer
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Magazine
Newsletters
Subscribe
Log In
Search
Subscribe
Donate
Magazine
Latest
Archive
Podcasts
Newsletters
Sections
Politics
World
Economy
Culture
Books & the Arts
The Nation
About
Events
Contact Us
Advertise
Current Issue
A Day for Gaza
/ February 3, 2026
The Street That Refuses to Die
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
What I saw walking one block in Gaza.
Ali Skaik
Share
Copy Link
Facebook
X (Twitter)
Bluesky Pocket
Email
Ad Policy
The Colorful Block in 2025.
(Ali Skaik)
This piece is part of A Day for Gaza, an initiative in which The Nation has turned over its website exclusively to voices from the Gaza Strip. You can find all of the work in the series here.
I used to know this block, the Colorful Block, by the sound of life.
Children’s laughter spilled from every doorway; men argued playfully over the price of tomatoes; my uncle’s supermarket—bright and packed with goods of every kind—glowed late into the night. The refrigerator hummed, the bulbs buzzed, and the air smelled like oranges and detergent.
That was before everything went dark.
When I came back after the ceasefire, I could barely recognize the street. The neighborhood, once painted in pinks, blues, and yellows to chase away the gloom of the blockade, had turned the color of dust. My uncle’s supermarket was only a blackened frame. Where the candy aisle once stood, a twisted shopping cart now lay half-buried in rubble.
A Day for Gaza
A Ceasefire in Name Only
Mohammed R. Mhawish
The Gaza Street That Refuses to Die
Ali Skaik
A Catalog of Gaza’s Loss
Deema Hattab
My Sister’s Death Still Echoes Inside Me
Asmaa Dwaima
What Gaza’s Photographers Have Seen
Huda Skaik
How to Survive in a House Without Walls
Rasha Abou Jalal
What Edward Said Teaches Us About Gaza
Alaa Alqaisi
What Happens to the Educators When the Schools Have Been Destroyed?
Ismail Nofal
At the Doorstep of Tomorrow
Engy Abdelal
“We Have Covered Events No Human Can Bear”
Ola Al Asi
People say the war has ended. But walking here, amid roofless rooms and doorways that open onto the sky, you understand: The war has only changed shape. The bombs have mostly stopped falling, but the silence that’s followed is its own kind of violence.
So I decided to try to breach the quiet, to walk this block—house to house, neighbor to neighbor—and ask people how they are living, what they are rebuilding, and what they are still carrying from the genocide that tried to erase us.
Current Issue
February 2026 Issue
“The war of fire ended. The cold war began.”
At the corner, Abdel Rahman Jebril, 33, stood beside what used to be his home, leaning on a stick. His left hand was wrapped in cloth, the fingers stiff.
“The suffering got worse after the ceasefire,” he said quietly. “The war of rockets ended, and the cold war began—a war that burns without weapons.”
His house was hit again and again until it collapsed completely, taking his dreams with it. Now he lives …
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