A Day of Breathing Life

One of my sisters, Jasmine, and I decided to see a doctor as soon as possible before the ceasefire broke. We knew it would happen because this is the life we are used to in Gaza.

We started preparing ourselves to go out – it had been a long time since we had.

First, we called our friends and relatives to decide which doctor was best for our cases. Then we started gathering the necessary currency.

Fortunately, the currency the clinic requested was not hard to find. What was difficult was gathering the coins, as they were the only currency the drivers accepted. We had to look for 30 coins back and forth.

To do this, we went to the market to buy some essentials and get a few coins. The most we could get from each seller was two.

Another day we went to purchase some internet cards, and another time we went to the pharmacy—all that so we could get the required number of coins.

Many times, we couldn't buy anything because of the currency problem, which taught us to always ask before making a purchase: "Do you accept this currency?" to avoid confusion.

We kept doing this process for over a month while preparing other minor things.

Finally, everything was ready, and we decided to go the next day.

The next morning, Jasmine, Abd Al-Rahman, and I got up early. Jasmine and I were to meet the doctor while Abd Al-Rahman was to help us on our way.

We prayed, tidied up our place, and got ready. I wore the most suitable clothes for such a long journey in the Al-Mawasi climate.

At 6:30, I was ready like my siblings, so we left the tent and started our journey. I was walking, but I felt like I was running. I always like going out after a long time. I was laughing unintentionally, like a crazy person walking alone.

The crisp, clean morning air was the thing I had missed the most. It reminded me of our destroyed neighbourhood. Only the birds and the rooster were missing.

I started singing anyway, slowing my steps, trying to live in that moment for as long as I could. Every step pulled me out of the despair I had been forced into.

After 20 more steps, my siblings and I reached the spot where we would catch a ride. Once there, I started looking all around me. A hopeful smile spread across my face and my heart started racing at the sight of the street full of people trying to get transportation.

They seemed to have work. Some carried their laptops on their backs, others books, while others stood just like us. This felt like my city was breathing again! I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene, lost in thought. I had forgotten I was waiting for a car. I just wanted to lay a mat down right there and breathe.

Suddenly, a child's voice cut through the air. "Cappuccino. Cappuccino. Ahla sabah la' yonko." He meant to express his wishes for a beautiful morning to pass by while selling his drinks.

I turned toward the voice and found a boy, maybe 10, with straight black hair, a pale face, darkened hands, and green eyes. I caught my breath. "I'd buy from him even with my last penny," I murmured. My siblings felt the same.

Before he disappeared, I noticed two more children sitting on the pavement, their eyes drooping with exhaustion, cradling boxes of biscuits to sell. My heart ached.

Every minute revealed another child carrying burdens no child should ever carry.

The question that had lingered in my mind for so long now burned brightly: who is suffering most in this war—children, youths, or elders?

In that instant, I knew. Children. Without a doubt. Their bodies were frail, barely holding up. They had entered life already burdened; too young to comprehend, too young to bear the weight, yet carrying it all the same.

I felt as though I was observing paintings in a gallery, each one holding a thousand stories. I wanted to write about them all, to help the city and its children, hoping my voice might do something for them someday.

To be continued…