A CHILDS VOICE FROM GAZA

ByAI-ChatGPT4o-T.Chr.-HumanSynthesis-11February 2025

The night the bombs fell, Amal clutched her little brother tight. She was only ten, but in that moment, she knew she had to be strong for him. Their mother had rushed them to the corner of the room, away from the windows, telling them to cover their ears. "It will pass," she whispered. "Like a bad dream."

But the bad dream didn’t pass.

In the morning, their street was no longer the street they knew. The bakery where Amal’s father used to buy warm bread lay in ruins, the smell of dust and smoke replacing the scent of fresh dough. Their neighbors, the ones who always waved to her on the way to school, were gone—some buried under rubble, others fleeing with whatever they could carry.

Amal's father had been at the mosque when the airstrike came. She found him later, wrapped in a white sheet, his face still and peaceful as if he were sleeping. But he wouldn't wake up. No matter how much she called for him. She held her mother’s hand as they walked toward the UN food distribution center. The line stretched far, filled with women and children whose eyes all held the same vacant look.

The look of loss.

Her mother didn’t speak much anymore, only squeezing her hand when the silence became too heavy.

Nights were the worst. The sky was never fully dark; flashes of fire and distant explosions lit up the horizon. Every time the ground shook, her little brother whimpered, and Amal would whisper stories into his ear—stories about the sea they had never touched, about birds that flew freely beyond the walls of Gaza, about a place where the stars weren’t hidden by smoke.

One day, a group of men with cameras came to the refugee camp. They asked Amal to speak about what had happened. She wanted to tell them everything—the fear, the hunger, the way her mother’s hands trembled even when there was no sound of war. But when she opened her mouth, only a whisper came out. "I just want to live," she said.

And that was all there was to say.

Amal’s Fate

Months passed, but the war never truly ended. Even when the bombs stopped falling, hunger, fear, and loss remained. Amal’s mother, once a strong woman who held their family together, became quieter each day. She spent her time staring at the sea of tents in the refugee camp, her hands folded in her lap, as if waiting for something that would never come.

Amal tried to stay strong for her little brother. She told him stories, made up games with pebbles, and held his hand when he woke up crying at night. But deep inside, she felt something changing—something heavy pressing on her heart.

One day, aid workers came to the camp with cameras and notebooks. A woman with kind eyes asked Amal what she wanted most in the world.

“To go home,” she said.

But home was gone.

A few months later, Amal and her family were moved to a different shelter. It had walls, but no windows. No sunlight. No safety. The streets outside were full of people searching for food, for work, for anything that could help them survive. Amal’s mother tried to find a way out, to leave Gaza and take her children somewhere safer, but the borders were closed. The world had moved on.

When winter came, so did sickness. Amal’s little brother grew weak, coughing through the cold nights. The medicine was too expensive, the doctors too far. One night, he simply stopped breathing. Amal held him, rocked him, whispered his favorite story, but he didn’t wake up.

Her mother didn’t cry. She just sat there, holding her son’s tiny body, silent as the ruins around them.

Amal never stopped dreaming of leaving Gaza. She imagined a place where she could go to school, where she could play outside without fear. When she turned sixteen, she met others like her—young people who still believed in a future, who still had hope. They gathered in secret, sharing books, learning English, writing letters to the world.

One day, Amal’s name was on a list. A scholarship to study in Cairo. A chance to leave.

Her mother kissed her forehead, smoothing her worn headscarf with trembling hands. “You will live, Amal,” she whispered. “For all of us.”

And so, with nothing but a small bag and a heart full of sorrow, Amal walked toward the border, hoping this time, the gates would open.

Amal’s Journey Beyond the Border

The morning she left Gaza, Amal felt like she was stepping into the unknown. The border crossing was a long, dusty road lined with armed guards and desperate faces—people begging to leave, just like her. Some had been waiting for weeks, their travel permits denied again and again.

She clutched the scholarship papers in her hands, her mother’s whispered prayers still lingering in her ears. “You will live, Amal. For all of us.”

After hours in a crowded waiting area, her name was finally called. A stern-faced officer examined her papers, glancing at her thin frame, her tired eyes. She held her breath, waiting for rejection. But then, with a heavy stamp, her passport was handed back.

She was allowed to pass.

As she stepped onto Egyptian soil, she expected relief. Instead, guilt gnawed at her. She was leaving behind her mother, her father’s grave, the only home she had ever known—even if that home was now rubble and dust.

Cairo was overwhelming. The streets were alive with noise, filled with people who had no idea what it meant to live behind a blockade. She struggled at first—her Arabic was different, her clothes marked her as a refugee, and the city moved too fast.

But Amal was determined. She threw herself into her studies, learning English, memorizing medical textbooks late into the night. She made friends—other exiled students, each carrying their own stories of loss. Together, they built a small world where hope could exist again.

Years passed, and Amal became a doctor. She had seen too much suffering to choose any other path. She worked in hospitals filled with the poor, the forgotten, those who had nowhere else to go.

But Gaza never left her.

One day, as she watched the news, she saw the familiar images—bombed-out buildings, crying mothers, children covered in dust. Her hands trembled as she realized: her people were still trapped, still suffering.

She knew then that she had to return.

It wasn’t easy. The border was even harder to cross than before. But this time, she wasn’t a helpless child. She was Dr. Amal. And she had come back to heal.

When she stepped into Gaza again, she found her mother waiting. Older, frailer, but still there. They embraced in silence, years of pain dissolving in a single moment.

And then, Amal went to work.

She stitched wounds, delivered babies, held the hands of the dying. She built something in the ruins—a small clinic, a place where life could fight against death.

And in that broken, battered land, she found her purpose. She had survived. She had returned. And she would never stop fighting for those still trapped behind the walls.

Amal’s Peace

Years passed, and Amal’s small clinic grew. What had started as a single room with borrowed supplies became a haven—a place where people found not just medicine, but kindness, warmth, and hope.

The war still came and went like the tides, but Amal no longer feared it. She had seen too much, lost too much, to let fear control her. Instead, she focused on healing—on the newborns she delivered, on the children whose laughter filled the air despite the destruction, on the mothers who still dared to dream of a better future.

One evening, as the sun set over Gaza, Amal sat outside her clinic, sipping tea with her mother. The sky, for once, was calm, painted in soft shades of orange and purple.

“You did it, my daughter,” her mother said, her voice filled with quiet pride.

Amal smiled, looking at the children playing in the dusty streets, their laughter rising like birds in the wind.

“I’m still doing it,” she replied.

She no longer dreamed of leaving. Gaza was her home, not just a place of sorrow, but of resilience. She had returned not as a prisoner of the past, but as a healer of the future.

And for the first time in a long time, Amal felt at peace.

THE END.