On a sorrowful evening, the sun slowly bows behind Gaza’s shattered buildings, as if ashamed of its own light before the cruelty of this scene. The colors of sunset, which once carried the warmth of hope, now resemble golden tears sliding down the face of the sky, mourning those deprived of the most basic rights of life. Among the rubble echo muffled cries—children who starved before knowing the meaning of childhood, and mothers who hide their pain deep inside so their little ones don’t collapse before life.

A sorrowful canvas. The city that once pulsed with life has turned into a sad painting, brushed with the hues of dust and the scent of gunpowder. Every broken stone tells the story of a home that once sheltered a family; every shattered window once looked out onto dreams; every pothole-riddled road was once a path for feet searching for a dignified life. Yet the sunset visits them each day, waving with its colors as if silently comforting them, whispering that no matter how long the darkness lasts, a dawn must follow.

Amid the rubble sits an elderly man, gazing at the horizon where the sun disappears. His face, etched with wrinkles, resembles a map of all the pain he has endured, and his eyes cling to the last threads of light before the night swallows them. He remembers the children he lost, the home that once embraced his dreams, and the neighbors who vanished beneath the debris. Still, he smiles faintly and whispers: “We will endure, because we have no other choice but life.”

Trembling hearts. Elsewhere, a mother wraps herself in her torn cloak, clutching her children to her chest as she watches the sunset through a window without glass. She tries to convince them that tomorrow the sun will rise brighter, and that God never abandons the oppressed. Yet her heart trembles; she knows tomorrow might be harder than today. Even so, she clings to her words, knowing that hope is the last weapon their bombed homes have not been stripped of.

And so the sunset weeps over Gaza—not with tears of water, but with tears of light. It weeps for their hunger and oppression, for their stolen innocence and shattered homes. Yet Gaza, like the sun itself, sets but never dies. Behind every long night lies a dawn; behind every crumbled wall beats a heart full of love and life. Perhaps one day, the sun will rise there not to cry, but to laugh with the children as they run across safe ground, and sing with the mothers a song of joy instead of an elegy of sorrow.