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We looked inside some of the posts by capocefalo and here's what we found interesting.
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17
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Ahmed, 32, construction worker (Jabalia Camp):
Action: Ran 5 kilometers to find his parents.
Time: One hour after the ceasefire was announced.
“I didn’t even think. I just ran. My legs were moving before my brain could catch up. When I saw my mom standing in the doorway, alive, I fell to my knees. She was holding a broom, sweeping rubble like it was just another Tuesday. I grabbed her and didn’t let go for ten minutes. Before the war, I built houses for people. Now I don’t even know if I can rebuild my own.”
Mariam, 45, teacher (Beit Hanoun):
Action: Walked through the ruins of her house, picking up fragments of her children’s toys.
Time: Three hours after the ceasefire.
“I found my son’s toy car under the broken concrete. It was crushed, but I held it like it was gold. I kept digging—photos, a teacup, my wedding dress. Every piece felt like a part of me. I didn’t cry, though. I just kept digging.”
Youssef, 17, student (Gaza City):
Action: Waited in line for hours at a makeshift aid distribution point.
Time: The next day.
“I hadn’t eaten in two days. My stomach was eating itself. When I finally got the bag of flour, I hugged it like it was my little brother. I ran home, and my mom made bread right there in the street. We didn’t even wait for it to cool. I wanted to go to university abroad. My dream has become to have a full meal.”
Samira, 60, grandmother (Shuja'iyya):
Action: Organized a group of women to clean the local mosque.
Time: Two days after the ceasefire.
“The mosque was half gone, but the minaret was still standing. I said, ‘If the minaret is still here, so are we.�� We swept, carried bricks, and even washed the floor with water from a broken pipe. By sunset, it felt like a place of peace again. But the prayer on Fridays is not the same without my grandchildren.”
Khaled, 28, fisherman (Beach Camp):
Action: Buried his brother with his bare hands.
Time: Three days after the ceasefire.
“We didn’t have a shovel. Just our hands. I dug until my fingers bled. My brother loved the sea, so I buried him by the water. I sat there for hours, watching the waves. I couldn’t cry. I just kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ His face is just there every time I look at the sea.”
Leila, 9, child (Rafah):
Action: Played hopscotch on a bombed-out street.
Time: Four days after the ceasefire.
“My mom said, ‘Don’t go far,’ but I just wanted to play. I drew hopscotch squares with a piece of chalk I found. My friends came, and for a little while, it felt like before. We laughed so loud, the neighbors came out to watch.”
Omar, 35, shop owner (Gaza City):
Action: Reopened his destroyed bakery with a single oven.
Time: Five days after the ceasefire.
“I had a bakery with ten ovens. When I went to check on it, I found one oven still working under the rubble. I cleaned it, lit it, and started baking. The smell of bread brought people running. They didn’t even care if it was burnt. One man cried when he took a bite. He said, ‘This tastes like home.’ For me, it’s enough to remind people of what we’ve lost—and what we can still make.”
Fatima, 22, university student (Khan Younis):
Action: Started studying again under a makeshift tent.
Time: One week after the ceasefire.
“I’ve always wanted to be an engineer, but I lost hope after my house disappeared. My books were buried, but my neighbor lent me hers. I sit under this tarp every day, reading. It’s not about the degree anymore. It’s about proving to myself that I’m still here, still moving forward.”
Ali, 50, farmer (Northern Gaza):
Action: Shared his remaining seeds with neighbors to replant crops.
Time: Ten days after the ceasefire.
“My fields were gone, but I had a handful of seeds left. I gave them to my neighbors and said, ‘Plant them. If they grow, we eat. If they don’t, we try again.’ We’re all in this together now. After being able to grow enough olives to feed my whole neighborhood, all I want to hope for now is for one tree to survive.”
Rana, 30, mother of three (Deir al-Balah):
Action: Planted flowers in a cracked pot outside her temporary shelter.
Time: Two weeks after the ceasefire.
“This broken pot and some wildflower seeds are all that remained of a real garden with roses and lemon trees. I planted them because I needed to see something alive, something beautiful. My kids water them every day. They call it our ‘hope garden.’ Maybe it’s silly, but it keeps us going. And it’s enough.”
Hana, 29, mother (Beit Lahia):
Action: Dug through rubble with her bare hands, calling her son’s name.
Time: One hour after the ceasefire.
“I heard him crying under the stones. I screamed his name, ‘Yousef! Yousef!’ I clawed at the concrete until my nails broke. When they pulled him out, he was gone. I held his little body and rocked him like he was sleeping. I couldn’t stop saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’”
Mahmoud, 40, taxi driver (Gaza City):
Action: Carried his daughter’s body to the cemetery in a blanket.
Time: The next day.
“She was so light in my arms. Like a bird. I wrapped her in her favorite pink blanket and walked to the cemetery. No car, no ambulance. Just me and her. I kept whispering, ‘Don’t be scared, habibti. Baba’s here.’ I remember the mornings when I would drive her to school. The road feels so empty now.”
Sami, 55, retired teacher (Shuja'iyya):
Action: Stood in the ashes of his home, holding his wife’s wedding ring.
Time: Three days after the ceasefire.
“Everything is just ash and smoke. I found her ring in the rubble. It was blackened, but I could still see our names engraved inside. I held it so tight it cut my palm. I didn’t feel it. All I felt was her absence. In this very same balcony that is now a pile of rubble, we used to sit every night to drink tea.”
Aya, 9, child (Rafah):
Action: Carried her doll with no head through the streets.
Time: Four days after the ceasefire.
“I used to brush her hair every night. I don’t know where her head went. I carry her body everywhere and I hope someone could fix her. My mom said, ‘She’s gone, Aya.’ But I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t. I just hold her, even though she’s broken.”
Tariq, 23, university student (Khan Younis):
Action: Sat by his brother’s grave every night, replaying their last argument.
Time: One week after the ceasefire.
“I sit here every night, begging him to forgive me because the last thing I said to him was, ‘You’re selfish.’ I bring his favorite mint tea and pour it on the grave. I know he can’t drink it, but it’s all I have left to give. Yes, we used to argue about everything—politics, music, even soccer. But I’d give anything to hear his voice again.”
Nadia, 34, nurse (Deir al-Balah):
Action: Rocked an empty cradle, humming a lullaby.
Time: Ten days after the ceasefire.
“I still hum to her like I always did when she was around. Every night. I rock the cradle and close my eyes, pretending she’s still here. Sometimes I wake up and reach for her, but the bed is empty. The silence is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. My heart breaks every time I sing to the empty cradle.”
Abu Hassan, 70, retired farmer (Northern Gaza):
Action: Sat in the ruins of his olive grove, holding a single withered branch.
Time: Two weeks after the ceasefire.
“I planted these trees around 50 years ago. They were my life. I sit here with this branch, and I think, ‘What did I leave for my grandchildren? Nothing but dust and this branch’. I would sit under these trees with my grandchildren, telling them stories, before it was all turned into a wasteland.”
Layla, 38, seamstress (Gaza City):
Action: Sewed her husband’s shirt into a pillow, sleeping with it every night.
Time: Three weeks after the ceasefire.
“He would bring me fabric from the market. This pillow of his shirt was my only way to keep him in my life. I can’t bear to wash it. It still smells like him. I sewed it into a pillow so I could hold him at night. Sometimes I wake up and forget he’s gone. Then I remember, and it feels like losing him all over again.”
Rami, 16, aspiring engineer (Jabalia Camp):
Action: Stared at the ruins of his school, holding his burnt textbooks.
Time: Three weeks after the ceasefire.
“I was supposed to graduate next year but my school is gone and my books are ash. I sit here every day, staring at the rubble, wondering if I’ll ever build anything or if I’ll just keep watching things fall apart. I dreamt about building bridges. Instead, all I want now is to rebuild my school.”
Suad, 42, mother of four (Rafah):
Action: Taped together a torn family photo, missing her husband’s face.
Time: Four weeks after the ceasefire.
“We used to take family photos every Eid. This one, the only photo we had of all of us together, is now torn. I taped it back together, but it’s not the same, because his face is gone. Nothing is the same. I look at it and think, ‘This is all we have left of him.’”
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Apologies to All the People in Lebanon
BY JUNE JORDAN
Dedicated to the 600,000 Palestinian men, women, and children who lived in Lebanon from 1948-1983.
I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?
They said you shot the London Ambassador
and when that wasn’t true
they said so
what
They said you shelled their northern villages
and when U.N. forces reported that was not true
because your side of the cease-fire was holding
since more than a year before
they said so
what
They said they wanted simply to carve
a 25 mile buffer zone and then
they ravaged your
water supplies your electricity your
hospitals your schools your highways and byways all
the way north to Beirut because they said this
was their quest for peace
They blew up your homes and demolished the grocery
stores and blocked the Red Cross and took away doctors
to jail and they cluster-bombed girls and boys
whose bodies
swelled purple and black into twice the original size
and tore the buttocks from a four month old baby
and then
they said this was brilliant
military accomplishment and this was done
they said in the name of self-defense they said
that is the noblest concept
of mankind isn’t that obvious?
They said something about never again and then
they made close to one million human beings homeless
in less than three weeks and they killed or maimed
40,000 of your men and your women and your children
But I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?
They said they were victims. They said you were
Arabs.
They called your apartments and gardens guerrilla
strongholds.
They called the screaming devastation
that they created the rubble.
Then they told you to leave, didn’t they?
Didn’t you read the leaflets that they dropped
from their hotshot fighter jets?
They told you to go.
One hundred and thirty-five thousand
Palestinians in Beirut and why
didn’t you take the hint?
Go!
There was the Mediterranean: You
could walk into the water and stay
there.
What was the problem?
I didn’t know and nobody told me and what
could I do or say, anyway?
Yes, I did know it was the money I earned as a poet that
paid
for the bombs and the planes and the tanks
that they used to massacre your family
But I am not an evil person
The people of my country aren't so bad
You can expect but so much
from those of us who have to pay taxes and watch
American TV
You see my point;
I’m sorry.
I really am sorry.
June Jordan
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