One day, where the sea kisses the horizon with hope, my mornings once began with a crisp black suit and a heart full of passion. I was a lawyer, carrying case files in my hands and the dreams of those who trusted me to fight for their justice. My small office was my window to the world, cluttered with papers, the scent of ink, and the quiet satisfaction of victories won, no matter how fragile they seemed. Within those walls, my dedication thrived — a pursuit of fairness in a world that often denied it.
But here , life doesn't offer a warning before it erupts in flames.
War broke out, and suddenly the sky was ablaze with missiles and the air filled with the deafening hum of drones. In a heartbeat, amidst a distant scream and the roar of destruction, my office crumbled into ash. My home — that cherished sanctuary where I imagined my family growing in peace — was reduced to a memory buried beneath the rubble.
I found myself living in a tent. A thin sheet of fabric standing helpless against the biting cold of winter and the searing heat of summer. The wind tugged at its fragile corners as if mocking our struggle. Torrential rains turned the ground beneath us to pools of mud, soaking our meager refuge. There, in the midst of dampness and despair, I searched for a dry spot where my children could rest their small, weary bodies.
Water was scarce. Food even scarcer. We shared each bite as though performing a sacred ritual — proof that we were still alive. The hollow eyes of my children hurt me more than the cold. Their faces were pale, their gazes filled with questions I couldn’t answer. The price of fruits and vegetables had soared beyond reach. Hunger turned what once was simple — an orange, a tomato — into a distant fantasy. G.a.z.a's citrus, once a symbol of life, now seemed to mock us with its unattainable promise.
Malnutrition gnawed at my children’s bodies, stealing their energy and stunting their growth. They grew up with fragile bones and weary limbs. How could I explain to them that the fruits of our land, the abundance that was once ours, were now out of reach?
But still, I resist. Each day, I wake up and gather the remnants of my determination. Though I lost my home and my office, I haven’t lost my voice. I will continue to fight for justice, for my children’s right to a better future, for the hope that one day Gaz.a will be restored — maybe even reborn.
In every thread of ash, there is a longing. A longing to rebuild, to heal, to live. Brick by brick, dream by dream, we will rise again.
by Mohammed.A S. from Gaza
