In the Heart, a Homeland... When the Earth Screams from the Womb of Death
Hearts Ablaze with Pain Amid the Brutal Aggression on Gaza Gazans Resist for a Homeland Enduring Oppression and Tyranny
From amidst the burning rubble, a cry emerged… not just any cry, but the birth of agony from the womb of death—a devastated feminine voice, dripping from the throat of a Gazan woman covered in the dust of bombings, her eyes flooded with tears—not out of weakness, but because she has seen more than any human memory should carry.
She stood atop the remains of a home that once echoed with laughter, a roof that sheltered dreams, a table that once overflowed with tea and henna. A house that held winter nights and grandmother’s tales of olive groves and “the old days.”
Now, there is nothing but scorched earth, the smell of charred iron, and names turned into numbers in the evening news.
She lifted her head to the sky—where missiles still drew death’s path through the air—and said to the wind:“I am not a victim… I am the daughter of this land, the daughter of the story. From this ash, I will write my final line with my own hand!”
She remembers the nights she fell asleep to her mother whispering poems about return, about the stolen orchards. Back then, she thought the word Nakba was just a passing bedtime story—not a curse passed from one womb to another.
A Repeated Nakba
And now, in this repeated Nakba, she weeps for her niece, who died without understanding why the sky was so angry. She weeps for her mother, whom she buried without a shroud. And she weeps for herself—not because she died, but because she survived to witness the absence etched in every corner.
In Gaza, hunger tastes like bitter salt on the lips of children. Thirst has the color of dust. Disease echoes in frail bodies without medicine.
Every morning, eyes open to a fundamental question: Will we survive this day? Will the night pass without a rocket or a loss? Even water—the substance said to be tasteless and colorless—has become a distant dream. That small bottle that quenches a child’s thirst has become more precious than gold.
Gaza does not die, because its scream has become a celestial memory. Every cry from beneath the rubble is a poem that does not perish, even if it has no paper.
