Mohammed Sameer
BY MOHAMMED SAMEER
Ah… how deeply we long for those days—
Days as simple as our laughter, as pure as our hearts, as warm as a mother’s embrace waiting at the doorstep.
We miss a time when we chased small dreams, played behind our home as if the whole world was no bigger than that clay fence, as if life was no more than a giggle or an olive tree watered with our trembling, joyful hands.
We yearn for the hours we spent planting fruit trees—not for pride in their harvest, but to tell the land: “We are with you, and we will bloom with you, no matter how dry the season becomes.”
We lived simply, loved quietly, and dreamed with the fierce hope only children know.
But… for two years now, life has been rewritten by war.
War came like a ravenous beast—it did not stop at destroying homes. It shattered our sense of safety, scorched every hope that dared to blossom.
We now carry our souls in the palms of our hands, counting our losses in whispers, as if even sorrow should be ashamed.
Everything has changed…
In war, dreams don’t just die—they vanish.
Laughter fades, the earth tires of our weight, and memory itself becomes a burden.
We miss…
Not only our homeland, but the people we once were.
We miss a childhood left unfinished, and a peace that fate never allowed us to write into our story.
No one truly knows how much pain we’ve endured — and how much we still endure every single day. Life has become unbearably harsh, with skyrocketing prices and worsening conditions that leave us struggling just to survive.
Getting access to clean drinking water has turned into a daily battle. We stand for hours in long lines, just to fill a few containers. It’s a painful routine, now a part of our reality — a reality that feels endless.
Our hearts can no longer bear more… No matter how hard we try to be patient, to hold on, to convince ourselves that tomorrow might be better — reality only grows more bitter.
I’ve seen an elderly man cry from hunger. I’ve seen a mother break down because she can’t feed her children — or even afford diapers to keep them warm and clean. These scenes are not rare. They’re part of our everyday lives — and they are slowly killing what little strength we have left.
We are not exaggerating. We’re not asking for the impossible. We only want to live with dignity — to find water, to afford food, to protect our children from hunger and sickness.
This is a cry from a heart in pain. We send it out, hoping someone will hear. Hoping someone will feel. Hoping someone will act. Because what we’re going through is simply unbearable.
I found myself craving certain fruits—like mangoes, peaches, and many others. But then I realized that, in truth, we no longer remember what they really look like, nor how they used to smell. Perhaps we’ve simply forgotten them, or their presence has faded from our memory, leaving behind only a faint image we try to recall.
It’s as if they are distant memories rather than fruits. They are no longer just food we used to eat, but echoes of the past—moments we once lived with our senses, now held only by nostalgia.
The scent of peaches… the taste of mangoes… small details that once filled our days have now become hazy. And yet, something of them remains within us—glimpsed in a summer breeze, awakened by the passing shadow of a memory, or stirred by a longing for what is no longer ours.
In Gaza, death is no longer a sudden event or an inevitable end to life.
It has become a familiar companion, knocking on doors without warning,
creeping into alleys and homes uninvited.
Death is everywhere—
in every street, every corner, every moment…
in every imaginable form.
These are not exaggerations.
They are the painful details of a daily reality we endure.
Here, in Gaza, human life has become the cheapest of all.
Blood is spilled without
reckoning,
and souls are taken as if they hold no sanctity.
We bury our loved ones with trembling hands and hearts too heavy to bear.
We grieve in silence, carrying wounds too deep for words.
And we look to the sky, whispering:
“Hasbunallahu wa ni‘mal wakeel”
— Allah is sufficient for us, and He is the best disposer of affairs.
A prayer of the oppressed.
The cry of those who have no power but their faith.
I wish we had in life the right to rewind…
To rewind a moment, a
feeling, a laugh.
If only we could rewind life
itself, we would…
And we would stop time
exactly where we want it to.
We don’t want to grow older, we don’t want to learn and mature,
We just want to remain with that same purity, that same innocence.
We want to reclaim our happiness from the harsh pockets of life
After the Cease Fire:
In fact, these were the worst two years for Gaza. Many families lost their children in this war. Also, many families became non-existent, all of their members died.
We hope that in the coming stages, days and years, Gaza will return to what it was before. We also hope that the situation will improve.
The conditions of all Gaza residents are still very bad. We hope that Gaza’s future will be like that of the rest of the world, and that they will live in peace, security, and safety.
