A 4x4 tent, with eleven people crowded into it, stands on the beach. If its inhabitants survive the waves, they fall under the rain gutters that turn the tent into an uninhabitable place, after the mattresses and blankets are soaked in a way that puts it out of service, and leaves its inhabitants, most of whom are children, suffering from the sting of the cold that shakes their hearts, makes their eyes cry, and freezes their tender bodies, as if they were sleeping in a refrigerator.

Scenes of children inside tents pierce my memory, which is full of trembling bodies, chattering teeth, and frozen limbs, in the early days of asylum in brick camps filled with cracks and crevices, drowning in piles of snow that we would wake up to, and the doors were closed on us before the shovels succeeded in opening safe passages to prevent slipping and ensure the movement of the way there, but not the return for those who began searching for woods in the neighboring mountains, hoping to restore warmth to the trembling hearts and blood to the frozen veins.

We were looking forward to implementing the right of return and the partition resolution of 1948, and then we find ourselves, after the “flood of liberation,” returning to the refugee tents. The aggressors began dividing the brick camps and displacement tents over the heads of children and women with fire belts and drones, so that the remains are scattered under the rubble, and those who were destined to live are displaced to places where life is nonexistent.

Oh God, how hard life is under the pandemic of fear, hunger, terrorism and terror..!

Stop the genocide now..!