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Amid the rubble Gaza has become, it can be difficult to remember what the enclave looked like only a year ago.
Only pictures on the phones of displaced Palestinians serve as a portal to relatively better, although still challenging, times. For some, the images are too painful to revisit - moments and memories from a life they fear may never return.
"The thing I hate most about this war is looking at the photos and memories from Gaza," says Ihab Al Maghribi, 26, displaced from his home in Gaza City and now living in a tent in the central Deir Al Balah. "It opens up a deep wound and causes unbearable pain."
Gaza was his "paradise" before the Israeli army began its bombardment of the enclave, Ihab says.
His home, nestled in the northern part of Gaza city, was Ihab's sanctuary. He loved photography, capturing the beauty in the mundane moments of daily life – friends laughing, family meals, the bustling streets. Every picture told a story.
"When the war started, my family and I fled to southern Gaza, leaving behind our home, our memories, and all the little details of our lives," Ihab tells The National. "The only thing I had left were the photos on my phone."
For Mohammed Sufyan, 27, the destruction of his favourite places is up close and personal. He never left Gaza City, instead staying behind in Al Tuffah neighbourhood as it turned into ruins before his eyes – and camera lens.
"I stayed in northern Gaza, and because of that, I’ve become a witness to the destruction of the most beautiful places in our city," he says. "Al Jundi Square, the Al Rimal neighbourhood, the port – places where we took our best photos and spent the happiest times of our lives – are now just memories."
Every time Mohammed opens his phone gallery, the heartache is immediate. "It hurts deeply to scroll through those pictures and remember our good days and happy moments. Most of my photos are from our gatherings outdoors, from my home, and from my work at the market. Now, they are just memories. Every time I look at them, I wish I could go back to those days." Mohammed told The National.
Part of Mohammed’s family fled south, together with the nine-in-10 Gazans who have been displaced by the bombing and Israeli eviction orders. "Seeing their photos kills me every time. I feel an overwhelming need to be with them, to hold them, but the reality is that I can’t. The war keeps us apart," he says.
The pain is magnified when one stumbles upon pictures of friends and family who are no longer alive, some of the more than 41,700 killed since the start of the conflict. For Halima Mohammed, 25, the photos of her brother hurt the most. "His pictures fill my phone with so many memories and moments we shared. Every time I look at them, I wish I had gone with him instead of staying behind to mourn him," she says.
Halima’s brother, killed in an Israeli air strike in December, was a constant source of joy for their family, always taking them out, never denying them anything. "Every night before I sleep, I open his pictures and cry. I remember him so clearly, and it breaks my heart every time," she says.
Before the war, Halima was known for her love of photography. "People used to call me the 'Queen of the Camera' because I loved capturing everything beautifully. I even bought an iPhone just to take better pictures." Her phone was filled with images of family outings, her favorite foods, and memories of a life she thought would last forever.
"Now, I miss those food pictures the most, especially because we’ve been living through a famine for months. The occupation prevents supplies from entering, and we’ve been deprived of even the basics – food and water."
Halima’s gallery is also a window to her past home, with its well-decorated living room and the warm gatherings that used to fill it. "These photos are precious to me, but they break my heart. Every time I look at them, it’s like reopening a wound that never heals."
In the beginning, Ihab avoided looking at this detailed documentation of his old life, holding on to the hope of a quick return. But as Israel's war with Hamas dragged on, so did his need to revisit the past. "I started flipping through the pictures more often, sometimes staring at them for hours. The streets of the Al Rimal neighborhood, the shops, the restaurants, the cafes – all the places that now only exist in my memories. Every detail breaks my heart."
Ihab’s phone holds fragments of his old life, but they feel distant, as if they belong to someone else. His home, his room, the late nights with friends – now just memories from a time that feels impossible to recapture. "I used to dress sharp every day, neatly pressed and ready for work. Now, I live in a tent, wearing the same worn-out clothes over and over again. It makes me want to explode – there’s nothing left of the life I knew."
For Ihab, the photos in his phone aren’t just memories. They are a bittersweet reminder of everything he has lost.
"Our house in the war is gone, and all that’s left are the memories and the photos – just like all of Gaza, with all its details, has disappeared."
