Huda’s wedding would have been held beneath olive trees, with lanterns strung between branches and music echoing over the sand, but that is in another world. She would have worn the dress she spent six months sewing by hand, ivory lace, long sleeves, a train embroidered with tiny jasmine flowers. Her sisters would have danced. Her father would have cried. And Adham, her fiancé, would have kissed her hand before lifting her veil.
But Gaza is not that world.
And Huda’s wedding dress never left its box.