Mohammed Moussa

And my mother, the same, too.

You know, she is a wonderful woman.

my brothers and sisters.

We were a small family and compared to families in Gaza, we are a very small family.

They enjoy their time with their grandkids.

And yeah, they were a simple family as everybody else in Gaza.

And I remember my mother and I remember my father.

how all they care about is to build for their kids, invested in the house they built all their lives for their children, you know.

But the house is no longer there.

My family is no longer there.

So it is strange, you know, how no matter who you are as a cousin or what you dream of or what you work for will be taken from you if it is a place, if it is a family.

I feel like my memory has been threatened in this genocide.

Because the places I recall in my mind, in my head, they exist.

The people who I miss, they exist in me, right?

And the places too.

But if I want to go back to that person, to that place, it's no longer

So there is something incomplete, there is something missing in your relationship with memory and it is hard to fathom sometimes because it leaves a void inside of who you are and you need to carry that void with you wherever you go.

It's really difficult to fill that void, I think.

The void of absence and the void of memory.

Most of the cousins have family members that are no longer there and people that they cherish and love are no longer there.