Do Words Truly Matter?

Suddenly, without warning, we were torn from our time—a time that kept pace with life—and thrown into another. A time when everything vanished. No internet, no electricity. It was as if we were in the Stone Age. All we knew of the outside world was the ceaseless sound of explosions and the shadows of ruin that surrounded us.

During those long days of silence and waiting, my grandfather was always lying on the green grass in the middle of our rustic yard, a radio by his side, listening around the clock. Every so often, we would ask, "Grandpa, is there anything new?" until the black of night fell. We had to minimize any conspicuous light, for the occupation hunts us more fervently at night—they made us hate the night.

We brought out chairs and gathered, as usual, around my grandfather. He lowered the radio's volume. The day's news summaries had been recited, and now the political analyses of the war began among those seated, clinging to the hope that it would not last long. "They'll have no targets left after six months," they'd say. "Of course, it will end."

Then, from the radio, we heard a sound we know all too well, unmistakable to any heart or ear. The sound of tragedy at the very moment it strikes. In the background, a tone rises that cannot be put into words. It is not a scream, nor a cry, but something in between... something unutterable. The news anchor's voice trembled as he spoke: the occupation had committed a massacre, it had bombed Al-Ahli "Al-Ma'amadani" Hospital in Gaza City. A hospital!

A wave of continuous weeping swept over us in a single moment. Hundreds of souls were stolen, souls that had sought refuge in a place they believed would protect them. A massacre that took with it new victims, dignity, feelings, memories, and future dreams. It was a clear declaration, there is no safe place in Gaza. That moment was the point at which all hope for the world to act ceased. Time kept moving, but without a sound, without an action.

In that silence, I remembered a scene from an old cartoon, where a character was trapped inside a small glass bottle, desperately trying to scream for help, but his voice was trapped, muffled. Here we are, pleading with the world, screaming, but the bottle remains sealed, and the curtain remains drawn.

I do not know if they have reached such a high state of apathy, or if their minds are shielding them from what they see, knowing that if they truly let it in, they would collapse. But of course, neither can be justified. They stand by, feigning helplessness before us, until our voices fade, and we disappear.

For me, the greatest danger in this bloodbath we are submerged in is not the loss of life, but the loss of faith. I don't mean the loss of faith in Allah, but the loss of faith in humanity. This is why I believe that words alone will not change a thing. Yet, I still try to assemble them. Before they ban dreams. Before they ban thought. Before they finish burning the city and the hearts within it.

Now, we await the end, even if it is death. Isn't it strange to wait for death when it already visits us every day?

I came to understand that we are waiting for anything that makes our lives livable. We wait for what has happened to be undone, for a magical solution, for a savior to come from afar and soothe our tormented hopes. We wait for a future where we can return to the past, to our safe, comfortable, and genuine zones, or so we once believed.

Yesterday, I did not sleep. The illumination flares, the constant shelling, the fear of repeating the nightmare of displacement that haunts my mind, and the questions that relentlessly gnaw at my thoughts without mercy or pause. And yet, I was expected to wake up in the morning to study chapters for a course I had long postponed.

I looked at the paper, then at the window... watching the white trail in the sky after every blast.

The black smoke... even the sky could no longer bear it; it took its blueness and vanished.

It feels like a party I have long lost the will to attend—a party of terror, anxiety, and loss.

I want to go home.