The war did not end when the bombing stopped. Gaza’s wounds remain open, its identity buried beneath the rubble of a city unrecognisable to those who once called it home. Streets have disappeared, landmarks have been wiped away, and the few structures still standing bear the scars of relentless destruction.

Ahmed Ali, 20, wanders through what was once his city, struggling to find familiar streets. "I no longer recognize Gaza," he says. "The occupation has destroyed everything." The cafes, restaurants, and seaside spots where life once thrived—Al-Baqa Rest House, Maldives, and countless others—have all been erased. What remains are only memories and echoes of voices that once filled the air.

Maha Salem, 30, experienced the same heartbreak when she attempted to visit her family in Gaza City. "I had a nervous breakdown from the scale of destruction. No streets, no houses, no life," she recalls. The city she once knew had been turned into an unrecognisable wasteland.

Saeed Al-Aghwani, 35, stands in the ruins of the once-bustling Al-Rimal neighbourhood, now a shadow of its former self. "I feel like a stranger in my own city," he says. Yet, amidst the devastation, a mural of a man holding a cactus remains—a silent testament to the resilience of a people who refuse to disappear, even as their city is erased before their eyes.