By Saed, Gaza Strip, Palestine, February 10, 2026
Our street wasn’t drawn on any architectural maps, yet it became the most beautiful street in the neighborhood.
When I grew up and visited other countries, I also learned that it’s the most beautiful street in the world, and the oldest street in the world.
Personally, I can’t recall a street that existed before it.
Our street doesn’t border a river, nor does it overlook valleys. It doesn’t have an elegant sidewalk, nor luxurious shopfronts, nor are there rows of manicured green trees on either side; but it possesses architectural secrets that make it more beautiful than all of that.
Our street isn’t just a road… our street embodies the qualities of humanity.
Our street doesn’t have a name, nor does it need one; no one says, “My father is so-and-so,” or “My mother is so-and-so.”
It is simply our street… and that is its name, a kind of blood relation, unrecognized by official records and undocumented by government agencies.
When I was a child, our street was my friend, the one my mother didn’t trust.
I longed for it, and it longed for me, so I’d sneak away after school, unbeknownst to her.
The first sweet betrayals are with the street, and the first battles each of us wages (with family and school) for our newly discovered freedom.
Our street never stays the same; it changes throughout the day, the days of the week, and the seasons.
Sometimes it’s a friend my age, and sometimes it walks with me to the market or the mosque like a brother.
At the time of the afternoon prayer, it stretches out in the shadows and dozes off like a grandfather.
And in the morning, when the door opens, it appears radiant like the girl next door, and your heart urges you to stay a little longer for school and breathe it in.
You walk in it as if you’re walking inside yourself… filled with sunshine, confident in the promise of hope.
Our street, when winter’s chill intensifies, welcomes you like a mother, eager to embrace you with both arms, her touch caressing your wet clothes.
Our street wasn’t just a road… our street was a person.
And like so many others in the neighborhood whom no one could reach, he has remained buried under the rubble for ten months.