The market was bustling with movement, filled with the noise of vendors and the cries of children. I wandered through the crowd, my frail body weighed down by burdens, as if carrying the weight of the entire world. I kept repeating to myself: “Where is the world? Why do they not see these people?”
Their homes are destroyed, their dreams shattered, their loved ones gone. Everything they own has ended.
Lost in my thoughts, a man’s voice interrupted me from behind:
“Excuse me, please make way.”
I turned to see why he was in such a hurry. He was pushing a wheelchair, and in it… a child. A child who no longer resembled the image of childhood we know. His leg was amputated, one arm gone, and the other reduced to a single finger!
His face was disfigured, burned so severely that his features were barely recognizable. But his eyes… they carried an indescribable agony. His small eyes, shrunken by the burns, were filled with an unbearable torment. Yet they silently screamed to the world:
“Why?”
I froze in place, paralyzed between despair and anger. I saw the child in everything around me—in the faces of passersby, on my phone screen, and even in the words I write now.
His childhood was stolen. His youth never had a chance to begin. His dreams burned away along with his small body.
I asked myself:
“What was his fault? What did he do to deserve this?”
Then, I asked louder, as if addressing the entire world:
“Is his fault simply that he was born in Gaza?”
But the world remains silent.
“Where are you, humanity?”
The market carried on, the people kept moving, but I remained there—carrying the question, waiting for an answer that will never come.
Do Not Forget the People of the Tents
Do not forget the people of the tents,
Where sorrow lingers, where hope laments.
Their dreams are shattered, their skies turned gray,
Their nights are long, no light to stay.
Do not forget the child who sleeps,
Amid the ruins, where silence weeps.
His cradle’s a stone, his song the blast,
Yet his spirit endures, steadfast, steadfast.
Do not forget the mother who mourns,
Her arms are empty, her heart still torn.
She searches for peace in a land of cries,
But finds only echoes of broken skies.
Do not forget the father who stands,
With calloused heart and trembling hands.
His strength a shield, his voice a plea,
For justice, for life, for dignity.
Do not forget Gaza’s weary face,
Its people uprooted, without a place.
Yet through the ashes, their will ascends,
Do not forget the people of the tents.
