The End of War?

Today they said the war has ended.

But it ended in name only.

It ended on paper, in the news, in front of cameras—

but we still live it every day, in small details no one else can see.

For the world, the war is over.

But in Gaza, the dust still hangs in the air,

the smell of smoke still lingers in the streets,

and the sound of planes still echoes in our memories.

How does a war end for a mother who still looks at her son’s empty bed

and speaks to his picture as if he can hear her?

How does a war end for a child who used to chase a ball,

and now watches it from afar with an amputated leg?

How does a war end for people who lost two years of their lives—

two years filled with fear, waiting, and loss?

How does a war end for a woman who built a home with her husband,

then returned to find only stones—no laughter, no voice?

How does a war end when Gaza lost one of its bravest faces—

the voice of journalist Anas Al-Sharif,

who told our pain with courage that knew no fear?

How does a war end when more than half the people carry

a wound or a memory that will never heal?

They say the war is over,

but it hasn’t ended in our hearts,

nor in the eyes of the mothers,

nor in the sleep of children now filled with nightmares.

We try to smile, to live, to rebuild what was broken,

but everything around us reminds us—it’s still here.

In the ruins of our homes, in the empty schools,

in the sea that has become a witness to our screams.

War doesn’t end with a signature,

nor with the silence of planes.

War ends when hearts finally heal,

when Gaza laughs again,

when fear stops visiting our dreams each night.

Until that day,

we won’t say it’s over.

We’ll only say:

The war ended before the world,

but not within us.