A year and a half of genocide with more than 50,000 martyrs and an entire city reduced to rubble. You believe you survived, but soon realize that what you survived was only the bombs, not the trauma embedded in your soul, which never heals, never ceases.
You start to piece together your wounds, trying to count your losses, but you soon discover that nothing remains, and even then, you’re reminded that it could turn for the worse in any instant.
When the ceasefire was declared in January, it felt like a deceptive pause — a brief respite before Israel resumed its crimes. Just days ago, they targeted young men who carried no weapons, who posed no threat — they were simply distributing food to the hungry.
But Israel doesn’t need a reason to kill us; our very existence is the accusation.
Yet, the bombing wasn’t the end. Israel imposed on us another war — one not exclusive to bombs, but rather just as brutal: starvation during Ramadan, which for Muslims is a blessed month that should be full of charity, community, and importantly unity. Israel closed all the crossings and blocked aid, leaving hundreds of thousands to starve, all with support from the American administration, while the world stands by and watches as we suffer live on TV channels and social media feeds.
On the night the ceasefire was violated — on March 17 at 2 a.m. precisely — I was lying in bed waiting to have suhoor, with my younger siblings asleep beside me. Suddenly, the sound of airstrikes echoed, which felt like a continuous barrage of bombs.
I jumped out of bed as if it was the first time I had ever heard an explosion. But it wasn’t the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last— both the reader and I know this. You can never get used to the sounds of war and genocide. Each explosion revives the terror, erasing memories and planting fear once again.
My siblings woke up terrified, and when I looked into their eyes, I saw the same fear I felt. The first words my little sister, Jood, uttered were: “The war has returned!”
Jood began crying but not out of fear. Rather she was eagerly waiting for Eid al-Fitr. There are only a few days left until the occasion, and we had bought her new clothes that very day. She was ecstatic like any ten-year-old girl would be, she felt a sense of normalcy coming back. But now, after surviving the genocide and Israel’s violation of the ceasefire agreement, she knows that joy is a luxury Israel denies the children of Gaza.
Last year, there was no Eid. Instead of wearing new clothes, the children wore shrouds. Instead of exchanging greetings, their names were added to the lists of martyrs. The same scenes unfold today. The massacre continues with the second Eid el-Fitr under genocide is but a few days away.
The numbers of martyrs keep rising without end. When will it stop? When will the Palestinian be treated as a human being with a name, a dream, and a life, not just a number in the news?
How many more graves must we dig before the world sees us? How many mothers must wrap their children in burial shrouds instead of Eid clothes? How many children’s names must vanish beneath the rubble before you say “enough”?
