Heartbeat Beneath the Rubble

Imagine being there—inside the building you lived in, just as the missile struck and the floors collapsed above you. Trapped beneath a mountain of stone, unsure whether this is your final day, or merely the beginning of endless torment. The world above continues, while you lie buried in thick silence—so thick that your heartbeat is louder than any other sound.

The air is heavy. Dust fills your lungs. And the darkness… unlike any darkness you've ever known. It’s the darkness of loneliness, of waiting, of fearing that no one will find you.

Your hand is wounded, outstretched, utterly powerless. Your mouth tries to whisper, “I’m here”… but your voice is hoarse, and the echo offers no reply.

Around you, perhaps a little girl no older than five, clutching her doll. Or a mother, shielding her child with her body, even if she cannot protect herself. Maybe an old man, struggling for breath, wishing he could glimpse daylight just one more time.

Under the rubble, there are no names or identities. No nationalities or addresses. There is only a human… who wants to live, to be seen, to be rescued.

Can you imagine the waiting? Hour after hour, wondering: Is anyone still searching for me? Will they remember I was here?

And if no one comes… will your body become just a number? Will your grave read: “Unknown Martyr”? Will your mother weep without knowing where you were buried?

Outside the rubble, there are faces waiting. A mother stares at the wreckage with teary eyes, clinging to a thread of hope—praying she might hear a cry from you, any sign you're still alive. A father stands silently, barely holding himself together, staring at the ruins as if his gaze alone could lift them. Siblings and friends hold their breath with every stone lifted, caught between the fear that you might be gone… and the desperate hope that rescuers will pull you out alive.

But time is heavy… and the minutes pass like knives. Perhaps they will reach you in time; perhaps they will pull out your body without a breath left. In either case, the agony is the same: you are there, and they are here—and hope between you may die in any moment.

These are not just “victims.” They are us—me, you, our brothers, our friends. They are people who had mornings, small plans, a half-finished cup of tea, a fleeting laugh, a message left unsent.

Every stone that falls is another silence. Every passing minute extinguishes a life… yet beneath the rubble, the silence still screams.

But we are not just victims. We are the ones who write, scream, and resist from beneath the rubble. We are the hearts still beating through the dust, the eyes still seeing through the dark. And if the world abandons us, we will not abandon each other. We will tell our stories, carry our names, and rebuild life from the shattered stones. Because Gaza does not die… Gaza is reborn—in every child who survives, in every mother who endures, in every voice that refuses to be silenced.