Today, October 7, marks three full years of the genocide in Gaza. These years have passed through our bodies and our hearts, tearing part of the soul from every home and taking something irreplaceable from every family.
It has been the darkest nightmare imaginable, yet we could not wake from it, because it was our life. We witnessed what we once thought no human soul could bear to see, and endured more than words can hold: killing, displacement, famine and thirst; massacres, mass death and disease; patients searching for medicine, children waiting for bread, mothers seeking shelter, and fathers gathering what remained of their children.
We lost our houses, then lost the people who made them homes. We lost our beloved children and those dearest to us, until every name caught in our throats, every familiar place held an absence, and every memory opened a door to grief.
Beyond all of this, we endured abandonment on a scale we never imagined the world could contain: abandonment by those close to us, by brothers and friends, and by a wider community whose stories of coming to one another’s aid had shaped our childhoods. We cried out until our voices grew weary, while its doors remained closed. Three years, and we still endure the humiliation of waiting for a loaf of bread, a drink of water, and a roof to shelter our children—as though our right to live must be pleaded for anew each morning.
The whirlpool of death swept through our homes, wounding every family and taking someone precious from every heart. The world watched us bleed and be killed in houses, apartment buildings, hospitals and tents, until our dwellings became temporary graves and our tents shrouds awaiting their hour. They could shield our frail bodies neither from summer’s heat nor winter’s cold, nor from the fire of missiles.
What has this war taught me?
It taught me that a homeland is the face of a child we fear for, a mother’s hand we hold tightly, and a home whose way we still know even after it becomes rubble. It taught me that the loss of loved ones does not end when the condolences end. It begins when everything falls quiet, and we search for their voices, finding only a silence shaped by their absence.
It taught me that a father can carry what remains of his son, then stand with what remains of his heart to comfort another father. That a doctor can bury loved ones and return to a wounded person waiting for his hands. That a person can be drained of almost every ounce of strength, then find enough within their faith to support someone else.
It taught me that patience is a tear falling as we say, “Praise be to God,” and a heart breaking without losing hope in Him. For three years, at every farewell, the world has heard us say those words. We said them with pain in our throats and tears upon our faces, because we believe that God sees, and that what is with Him is better and everlasting.
It also taught me that abandonment wounds us, but cannot determine who we become. We are a people who want to live with dignity, raise our children in safety, and see our homeland free and our holy places protected. Whenever they uprooted a tree, we remembered its place so we could plant again. Whenever they demolished a school, we taught our children among the tents. Whenever they sought to extinguish life, they found someone supporting the wounded, sharing bread, or lifting a stone from the rubble.
Three years, and we still carry the names of our martyrs in our prayers and our children’s dreams within our hearts. Amid this devastation, we search for the first steps toward recovery. We will build with whatever strength remains, preserve the stories of those we have lost, and restore as much of life as we can.
We will never renounce our dreams or surrender our surviving children to despair. We will move toward freedom and victory, carrying those we have lost in our hearts, and holding in our hands the means to build a tomorrow worthy of their sacrifices.
O God, as You have helped us endure this grief, help us rise again. Have mercy on our martyrs, heal our wounded, free our prisoners, and grant us, after this long night, a dawn in which our families are safe and our homeland is free.
No comments:
Post a Comment