I was a child in Gaza, but I wasn’t like the other children—fear set me apart. Yes, I admit it: I was afraid. And I don’t see any shame in that. I was still just a child, and children have the right to feel fear—especially when they grow up in a place like the Gaza Strip.
And the strange thing is, all the other children—or at least the ones I knew—never seemed to feel fear at all. They mocked me when I ran at the sound of a warplane firing a missile, while they threw stones at the sky, as if they could strike the plane down. I was the only one who ran to his father, while they stood firm, unmoved, without a trace of fear.
And that thought unsettled me—why was I different from them? Why didn’t I possess the same courage? My hatred for the enemy burned just as fiercely, so why was I armed only with the pen of escape?
One day, I confided in my father about how I felt, expecting him to be angry with me. He had always said, “You must avenge your brother… Wherever the enemy is, strike him—don’t fear him, and never run.” Those words echoed in my mind every time I trembled.
I expected him to explode in anger when he discovered that his son was a coward. But instead, he smiled gently and pulled me into a hug. “My son,” he said softly, “you are no less brave than those other children. Your time for courage just hasn’t come yet. In our land, we’re born with bravery in our bones—some of us turn our backs on it, and others hold on tight. Don’t worry… it is inside you. It just hasn’t shown herself yet.”
Those words made me happy. From that day on, whenever one of the neighborhood kids mocked me for being afraid, I’d respond with a proud smile, “I’m brave like you… my courage just hasn’t had its time to shine yet.” Of course, they all looked at me with puzzled expressions—my words didn’t make much sense to them, but to me, they meant everything.
Gaza isn’t much different from the rest of the world—its summers are hot, and the rain only comes in winter. But the shelling? That comes all year round.
Last year, during my summer vacation, our neighbor Abu Ahmed’s house was bombed. May he rest in peace. He was truly a kind man. Every morning, he would drive me to school, and every evening he greeted me with sweets when I returned.
I still remember the day it happened—I had just come back from visiting my aunt in Beit Lahiya.
When I returned, Abu Ahmed’s two-story house had been reduced to rubble. I stood frozen, watching as neighbors pulled out the bodies of Abu Ahmed, his wife, and his children from beneath the debris.
At first, I just stared. Then I cried.
But this time, it was different. For the first eight years of my life, I cried over childish things—because I didn’t want to go to school, because my father scolded me, or because I failed an oral exam.
But now, I was crying because I had seen death. Because someone kind and familiar—someone who once gave me sweets and rides to school—was suddenly gone, crushed beneath the ruins of his own home.
The street that used to echo with his car horn and his laughter had turned silent.
I didn’t understand how someone so alive could disappear so quickly.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the rubble, the dust, the stillness.
And from that day on, I knew: in Gaza, childhood ends early.
That day, something in me shifted. I wasn’t just a child anymore.
But this... this was the first time I cried out of grief. Real grief.
The kind that doesn’t go away when someone hands you a candy or tells you it’ll be okay.
The kind that changes something inside you—quietly, permanently.
It planted a heaviness in my chest I didn’t yet know how to carry.
And from that moment on, I began to understand what it meant to grow up in Gaza.
A year passed, and the winter bombing season returned.
We were in our classroom, huddled together as rain tapped softly on the windows, when our beloved teacher, Mrs. Mouna, stood before us.
She had lost her arm years ago in a shelling that struck her home, yet she never stopped smiling.
Her sleeves were always neatly folded, her eyes full of warmth—not pity—and every day, she greeted us like we were her own children.
"I know, my dear little ones," she would say, her voice gentle yet firm, "that you will, God willing, take revenge for me… and for many others like me."
Then she’d smile and add, “God protect you,” and kiss each of us on the forehead after every class.
Even with one arm, she made us feel whole.
I don’t know why exactly, but I cried for the second time after her words.
Maybe it was the way she smiled through her pain.
Or maybe it was because, for the first time, I truly understood the weight of the injustice that had fallen on the people I loved.
Abu Ahmed, his family…
Teacher Mouna, who once had two arms and now only had one…
They had all lost something because of the same enemy.
And something inside me hardened that day.
I decided—quietly, without telling anyone—that one day, I would take revenge.
For Abu Ahmed. For his children.
And for the teacher who kissed our foreheads with one hand, but left fingerprints on our hearts.
That day, I had barely stepped out of the school gate when the explosion came.
In a blink, the building vanished—reduced to dust and silence.
There were no students inside, thank God. But... Teacher Mo’mena was martyred.
She was the only one inside.
In the days that followed, I kept replaying her final words in my mind.
And I came to believe—maybe just as she had—that this was never just about revenge.
It wasn’t a simple eye-for-an-eye.
No... God Almighty was showing us something deeper:
This is not a conflict over land, or borders, or history textbooks.
This is a fight for existence itself.
They refuse our right to live on our land.
And we—by breath, by blood, by prayer, and by stone—refuse theirs.
This is what the struggle has always been.
And this is how it will remain.
The next day, I walked with a number of students to the funeral of teacher Mouna. The mourners were students, teachers, politicians, and fighters. One of the fighters was walking beside me; he was carrying a weapon and had a mask on his face. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He looked like a giant despite his short stature.
He looked at me, and it seemed to me that he was smiling even though his face was behind the mask. Despite my curiosity, I didn't dare to speak to him, but he surprised me and asked me...
- You have been crying for a while, do you know the martyr?
- Yes... My teacher at school... She was very kind.
- You will find her in heaven, God willing, my little one.
After the funeral of our martyr teacher, I returned home, and the image of that fighter still lingers in my mind. In the morning, I decided to go to the gathering places of the fighters, as the school has been destroyed and it will take some time before we can return to it again.
As soon as dawn broke, I put on my clothes and rushed to the Peace Mosque as fast as I could, searching for them, but I found the place empty.
It was early, so I sat on one of the mosque's steps, contemplating the beautiful morning sun and the wonderful morning breeze.
That beautiful scene lasted for a while until it was marred by the sounds of warplanes in the sky.
But this time, I didn't run away. I was actually surprised at myself for sitting there, looking at the helicopters in the sky without fear, despite their frightening and gloomy appearance.
At that moment, I realized that my father was right and that the time for my courage had come..
And quietly, I picked up one of the stones lying on the ground and threw it toward the helicopter.
Of course, the stone didn’t reach it—didn’t even come close—but I wanted it to be a real act, something to prove to myself that my fear no longer existed.
As I stood there staring at the helicopter, one of the resistance fighters suddenly appeared, picked me up, and began running swiftly toward the thick trees.
Behind us, the helicopter started firing at us. At that moment, I struggled not to scream from fear as I watched the bullets flying around us.
I expected one of those bullets to hit me—or to hit the fighter carrying me. But miraculously, we made it to the trees, and the sound of the helicopter and its gunfire faded.
I sat down to catch my breath, surrounded by dozens of resistance fighters, including the one who had saved me from the gunfire.
I later learned that he was the same person who had stood beside me at the teacher’s funeral. They were sitting around rockets and missiles prepared for launch, but they paused what they were doing and looked at me. Then one of them said:
— “We can’t launch a single missile while this little boy is here. As soon as we fire even one, they’ll respond with dozens, and the child will surely die.”
I turned to the fighter I recognized, and he removed his mask. He was a young man, only nineteen years old, but he looked at me with a reproachful expression.
One by one, they all removed their masks. I expected to see more looks of blame, but instead, I felt a strange comfort upon seeing their youthful, smiling faces.
Even the fighter I knew—the reproach in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a smile like the rest of his comrades.
And then the dream began—a beautiful dream that reminded me of the humanity lost in this enemy and in this world. A brief but tender dream in which innocence came alive for a few fleeting moments, just long enough for us to prepare for what was coming next.
In the two days before, I had cried over my beloved neighbor and my dear teacher, but in that moment, with those fighters, I could not stop feeling joy as each of them began to share a story—something about a child, a daughter, or a younger sibling.
There was the fighter sitting next to the missile crate, laughing non-stop as he told us how his little son had once worn a military helmet belonging to one of his father's comrades during a visit, and how the child’s entire face disappeared inside the helmet.
Another fighter said I was about the same age as his daughter, who wakes him up for dawn prayer whenever he’s home.
Then there was the one burying an explosive device beneath the ground—he was talking as he worked. He spoke about his much-younger brother and how he found great joy in playing “resistance and occupation army” with him.
He described those moments as what gave him the strength to stand firm against the enemy—so that his younger brother would grow up to find his land liberated and finally enjoy freedom.
.
They were beautiful moments—moments in which these heroes forgot the sound of evil birds above and remembered their families and loved ones.
And despite their deep love for them, they continued their resistance work with happiness no less than the joy they felt being with their families.
As for me, just being in their company was a delight. Here were the heroes I had always seen in the streets and longed to be like—now sitting with me, laughing and chatting as if I were their younger brother.
And in truth, I was their younger brother. Wasn’t this a beautiful reality—one that nearly matched the beauty of a dream?
But beautiful reality doesn’t last in Gaza. The painful nightmare always returns—and this time, it returned so hideously and unbearable that even those who caused it would have felt sickened by themselves.
Without warning, bullets rained down on us from every direction—both from the sky and the ground. I looked and saw that the lower half of one of the fighters had vanished completely, and bullets were still ripping through his body. The last thing he said, after remembering God the Almighty, was:
— “Get into the tunnel, little one. These bastards won’t leave you alive.”
He said it and was martyred instantly, his blood soaking my face.
I turned around in horror, and found no one left. They had all turned into blood and torn limbs, and I was sitting in the middle, not knowing what to do.
Terror gripped me. I looked to my right and saw an arm and a leg. I turned to my left and saw the head of the fighter whose daughter used to wake him for dawn prayer. It was a gruesome sight.
Suddenly, the fighter I knew appeared again. He had put his mask back on and was carrying an anti-tank missile launcher on his shoulder.
His eyes were gleaming with tears as he looked at the bodies of his fallen comrades. Swiftly, he bent down and removed some branches that looked like someone had placed them to hide something. And indeed, underneath was what looked like a small trench.
Before I could utter a word, the fighter placed me inside the trench. Just before he covered it again with branches, he looked at me and said:
— “You’re safe now. No matter what you hear, don’t come out of this trench. When everything calms down, I promise, God willing, I’ll take down some of them. The rest will get scared and flee. Then, and only then, come out—and by God’s will, you’ll be safe.” .
Then he paused for a moment, hugged me tightly, and said,
— “We’ll miss you, little one… Goodbye.”
He said it, then gently placed the branches over my head.
I lay still, listening as his footsteps hurried away into the distance.
Seconds later, a powerful explosion tore through the silence—
Then another.
And another.
I lost count after that.
The blasts came hard and fast, echoing through the air.
But soon, they began to fade… growing more distant with each thunderous boom, until there was only silence.
As for me, fear had consumed me so completely that I couldn’t cry or scream, afraid the enemy might hear me. The terror only showed itself through my trembling body. I remained in that silent, shaking state until the battle ended and calm returned to the area.
I quietly emerged from my hiding place, and my eyes were met with the still bodies of the martyrs.
Only then—when the shock faded and the fear began to loosen its grip—did I cry.
At first, it was soft. Then the tears came heavier, louder.
I didn’t care anymore if the enemy returned.
I don’t know why, but crying brought relief.
Through the tears, I even found myself smiling at them—waving a gentle goodbye.
Then, with careful steps, I began to move through the area, searching.
I was certain the fighter I knew was behind those fierce explosions.
And I had to find him.
I left the relative safety of the tree-covered area, my heart pounding with fear.
But I had to be sure he was okay.
So I gathered every ounce of courage I had, pushed past my trembling, and walked—
Through the fire, through the rubble, past the shattered remains of homes once full of life—
Until I found him.
He was lying there in a pool of blood, his legs gone, a burning tank beside him—the very one he had destroyed.
I ran to him, heart pounding, breath caught somewhere between terror and awe.
But when I reached him, he was smiling.
His face glowed with peace, not pain.
And then he spoke—his voice calm, almost gentle—as he said these simple words:
"Didn’t I tell you we would miss you, little one? Look… God helped me burn it. Alhamdulillah.
Now I must go—my brothers are waiting. See them? They’re waving to me… I’m coming.
The scent of musk is drawing me in… We’ll miss you, but I know your journey will end like ours.
We’ll wait for you, little one. Until we meet again."
Then he slowly closed his eyes, and his pure soul ascended to a better place.
As I stood on the verge of tears once more, my eyes landed on his weapon lying beside him.
I reached for it with trembling hands, and in that moment, the words of that 19-year-old hero rang in my ears—sharp and steady, like the blasts of his rifle.
With every ounce of resolve, I swallowed my grief.
There was no room for tears anymore.
Not even for a child like me.
With the same quiet determination, I knelt beside the martyr’s body and embraced him.
In that moment, I realized just how deeply I loved him—and all those like him—even though I had known them only briefly.
I kissed his forehead, still warm with the echo of his final breath.
Then I stood, slowly, and lifted his weapon from the ground.
It felt heavy in my hands—not just in weight, but in meaning.
I carried it with the certainty that I would never set it down… not until my journey ended as theirs had.
Not until I joined them, God willing, in the most honored of places.