Those Who Missed the Dawn.

This morning, I was scrolling.

Just scrolling.

Until a video appeared — Gaza.

A small party for orphans.

Laughter, soft and trembling.

Faces searching for someone who isn’t there.

I cried.

Not because I’m weak —

but because I saw too many of them.

Too many small faces

carrying the weight of loss.

Childhood used to mean something else.

A room lit by sunlight.

A mother’s voice humming.

Babypowder, warm milk, apples, the smell of sleep.

Fear was just the sound of a cat – too close to the sleeping child.

Our children in Gaza —

they grew up the same.

Cerelac, bottles, songs before nap time.

But one morning,

the sky fell.

Childhood ended in a single sound.

Half of them lost a limb.

Their eyes — empty glass.

Their dreams — dust.

They play with what’s left of memory.

The war is “over.”

That’s what they said.

But I still see them —

waiting in line for water,

under a weary sun, in air thick with dust,

carrying jerrycans where lunchboxes should be.

We had to pull our children from their favorite corners —

from the tiny spaces that once felt safe —

and run through the streets,

looking for a wall strong enough to hold the next blast,

a corner to hide from the chaos that never ends.

The world watched.

The world stayed quiet.

NO Actions THERE.

The war ended —

but no one came back.

Not the parents,

not the laughter.

They met despair

before they knew hope.

They learned to hide

before they learned to play.

Nothing is safe.

Not the streets.

Not the air.

Not the silence.

Amna al‑Mufti, ten, filling a waterjug when the blast found her.

Hind Rajab — trapped until death found her.

And countless others

— unnamed, unseen —stories that never reached a screen,

but stayed carved into the hearts of those who lived them,

or died inside them.

I remember Al-Wehda Street —Tailandy compound

the boy standing,

his father’s blood still warm on his face.

How does he see his body again after that?

How do you return from that?

How do eyes forget?

In Gaza, childhood breathes through ruins.

We used to know joy once.

they never did.

Every child deserves to be untouched by war.

Every child deserves to dream.

To wake up to light,

not to the sound of the war.

To our children —

I hope life gives you a new sky.

Even if it’s built from memory.

Even if it’s small.

Even if it trembles.