We went to sleep worrying about what we would eat for breakfast. We woke up just trying to survive. We woke up to the ground trembling beneath us, explosions ripping through the silence, fire swallowing everything in its path. My ears rang, my heart pounded, my hands trembled
but my mind refused to believe. Not again. Not again.
But it was real. The war had returned.
We clutched onto scraps of fabric and flimsy plastic bags, trying to shield ourselves from missiles meant to erase us. We had nothing
no food, no water, no medicine. Our bodies were frail, bones pushing through thin skin. No hospitals, no painkillers, no fuel to keep the barely-breathing alive. Even if we survived the bombs, our bodies were too weak to withstand the aftermath.
More than 500 people most of them children had gone to bed like us, peaceful, dreaming, thinking about their morning meal. But unlike us, they never woke up.
Their night ended in heaven.
Their bodies, now nothing but scattered limbs, torn apart beneath the rubble.
The worst part of war isn’t just the fear of dying – it’s the fear of watching the people you love slip through your fingers. The fear of realizing you can’t protect them. That no matter how tightly you hold them, how desperately you whisper, Stay with me, stay with me, the missiles don’t listen.
That was all I could think about.
Beyond that, what difference did it make? We have lived in the mouth of death longer than we have lived outside it. This this was just another chapter in the same nightmare.
Words feel empty.
All of our pain, all of our heartbreak, all of our shattered souls how do you fit them into sentences?
do you describe the way grief sinks its claws into your chest, twisting, digging deeper, until there is nothing left but numbness?
What’s the point of words when the world has chosen to be deaf?
We are drained, beyond exhausted.
We were barely stitching together the remains of our lives, picking up the broken pieces, telling ourselves, we will make something of this ruin.
But what is there left to make?
What are they even fighting?
What remains of us to destroy?
They are waging war against rubble and shadows of souls.
We are not warriors, not myths, not legends
we are just people, flesh and blood, just like the rest of the world.
The real question is, how did we become so insignificant to 8 billion people that we are being slaughtered live on air?
How did our deaths become a spectacle?
How did our screams become mere background noise to a world that has learned to look away?
We are being killed by hunger, by thirst, by walls of fire.
Missiles weighing tons are dropped onto tents that barely stand.
And the most devastating part?
In a few days, no one will even remember.
We will become just another fleeting story.
A headline for a moment, then silence.
A post shared today, forgotten tomorrow.
People outside are buying clothes, preparing for Eid, setting tables, stringing up lights. And we?
We are picking up the pieces of our children.
Their hands. Their feet. Their faces we kissed goodnight, now unrecognizable.
I see the pictures of children dying, their eyes frozen in terror, their small bodies twisted in pain.
And I suffocate
There was a moment a brief, fragile moment when we believed the dying had stopped.
We told ourselves, it’s over. The worst has passed. It won’t happen again.
We were fools.
Now, all of us are shattered.
Not just because the bombs are raining down again though how could anyone ever get used to this? but because every flicker of hope we held onto was snuffed out.
We tried.
We tried to pretend life was possible.
We walked through streets of ruin, convincing ourselves, we can rebuild.
We took our children out, let them play, laughed a little, grasped at normalcy like it was sand slipping through our fingers.
But even that was not allowed.
Even survival among the wreckage is forbidden.
And now the monster has returned to steal our children.
May God disgrace every single one of you who abandoned us.
For every tear that burned down our cheeks.
For every father who dug through the rubble with his bare hands, searching for his child.
For every mother who held a lifeless body to her chest, rocking, whispering, wake up, wake up, please wake up.
Three children martyred.
Three mothers left holding empty cradles – on Mother’s Day.
In a single moment.
May Allah disgrace you for breaking our men, for exhausting our strength, for making us feel helpless, for betraying us.
Allah , our only refuge, our last thread of hope – do not burden us beyond what we can bear.
Do not burden us beyond what we can bear.
But then again, maybe it doesn’t matter.
The war is back.
Wake up – don’t sleep. Drink water – don’t let yourself fade away. Charge your phone – stay connected, stay alive. Find food, take cover, hold on. Pull yourself together, keep going, no matter how heavy your legs feel. Gather what you can, leave the rest behind – just survive. Reassure the little ones, even when your own voice shakes. Breathe. Stay alive.
Don’t break down – there’s no time for that. Keep walking, even when your body begs you to stop. Feed the children, even if you have nothing left for yourself. Don’t cry. Don’t fall. Don’t die. Don’t stop.
Every tear our children shed, every tremble in their voices, every innocent question left unanswered…
They are living proof of a cowardly enemy’s crimes and the deafening silence of a nation that once claimed to stand for justice.
Don’t forget to prepare your children for Eid…
But tell me, how do we prepare children for joy when all we’ve learned is how to prepare them for shrouds?
How do we dress them in new clothes when the only fabric waiting for them is white?
How do we teach them to celebrate when their names are already written not in invitations, but on cold, lifeless walls?
Cue the outrage. Cue the slogans. Cue the performative grief.
Cue the world watching in horror for a moment.
Then turning the page.
The show is back with a new season.
Enjoy.
This is the brutal reality of #Gaza:
As night falls, the army declares the escalation of its ground assault on the strip.
By the early hours of dawn, leaflets are dropped – promises of evacuation, but masked by the thunder of artillery.
And then, just an hour later, they storm in. They surround us, trapping the innocent, turning our streets into killing grounds. We run, we hide, but there’s no escape.
One by one, they take our lives – our brothers, our children – each strike another piece of our soul torn away. And the blood, the cries, the devastation… it echoes through the shattered silence, a reminder that no one is safe.
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