The sun rises over Gaza in an unfamiliar way — not as a passing celestial body, but as a mother emerging from behind the clouds to embrace her children after long nights of fear and tears. With its rays, it washes away the lingering ashes in the air and sends its warmth to the walls exhausted by shrapnel, as if gently patting the city’s shoulder and whispering, “Enough, my little one… the pain has eased, even if just a little.”

In a moment that feels like a miracle, light seeps through the alleys, reflecting off the shattered glass as a new sign of hope — as though Gaza is smiling through its wounds. The silence after the storm is not emptiness, but the rest of a soul worn out by struggle. Among the ruins, new stories are born, and the wind that once carried smoke now carries the scent of earth dampened by sunlight.

The Sun — Gaza’s Eternal Mother

That sun, the mother who never abandoned her child, tries to soothe her daughter’s pain. She stretches out her golden arms to embrace the sea, warming it from the chill of war, and whispers to the waves, “Be still — they are weary.” It is as though her light carries an apology — from heaven to earth, from the universe to this small, patient land.

The people of Gaza rise as if waking from a heavy dream, uncertain whether it has truly ended or if a new dawn has just begun. Their faces are tired, yet their eyes still gleam with the remnants of life. They hear a faint moan within their souls — not of fear this time, but of longing: for life, for love, for the peace they have awaited so long.

And so, the sun embraces Gaza like a mother holding her child after a long separation — planting a kiss upon her weary forehead, promising that the next dawn will bring a fragment of safety. As the threads of light slowly retreat beyond the horizon, Gaza stands tall, opens her heart to the light, and whispers to the sun: “Stay with me… for now you know the way to my heart after all this darkness.”