Yousef crouched beneath the shattered remnants of what once had been his home. Dust and smoke filled the air, blurring the fading sunlight that struggled to break through the broken windows. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat like the thudding of distant artillery. Ten years old and already accustomed to the sounds of war, but today, the fear had rooted deeper than ever before.

It had started like any other day in Gaza—if any day in a war-torn place could be considered normal. Yousef had been playing with his younger sister, Leila, in the courtyard, making up stories about flying kites that could touch the stars. The kites were all gone now, taken by the wind or torn apart by the explosions that rattled their neighbourhood.

Their mother’s voice had called them in for lunch, the last meal they would have together. Yousef could still hear the way she had sung to them, trying to keep their spirits up despite the distant echoes of conflict. She had always been strong, trying to shield them from the harsh realities beyond their crumbling walls. But no one could shield them from what happened next.

The first explosion shook the ground so violently that Yousef fell off his chair, the bowl of lentil soup clattering to the floor. Leila screamed, clutching their mother’s leg, as the walls trembled, and dust rained from the ceiling. Their mother had grabbed both, her voice a sharp command over the rising roar.

“Bas ya rab, move, move now!”

Yousef’s legs had felt like lead, his mind struggling to process what was happening. They had rehearsed this many times—what to do if the fighting got too close. But this wasn’t a drill. The sounds were too loud, too close, and the ground was shaking in a way that drills had never prepared him for.

The next explosion was closer. The windows shattered inward, and Yousef barely had time to throw himself over Leila as glass rained down. His mother pulled them both up, her hands shaking but her voice steady. She led them to the basement, where they huddled together in the darkness.

Time lost meaning in the blackness. The only sense of the outside world came through the trembling of the ground and the muffled booms that seemed to draw closer and closer. Yousef’s breath was shallow, his ears ringing. He clutched his mother’s hand tightly, feeling her tremble despite her attempts to remain calm.

For what felt like hours, they sat in silence, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the distant cries of people outside. Then came the noise that would haunt Yousef forever—a roar louder than anything before, followed by the sensation of being lifted and thrown like a rag doll.

When he awoke, the world was quiet, but it was a terrible, unnatural silence. Dust filled his lungs as he coughed and tried to sit up. The basement ceiling had collapsed, trapping them inside. Yousef’s head throbbed, a sharp pain cutting through his thoughts. He looked around, eyes searching the darkness, panic rising in his throat.

“Ummi?” His voice was small, frightened.

There was no answer.

“Leila?” he called, more desperately now.

His hand brushed against something warm and soft. His sister was lying beside him, unconscious but breathing. Relief flooded through him, only to be replaced by dread. His mother was nowhere to be found.
Yousef tried to push the debris off them, his small hands scraping at the dirt and broken wood. He called out again and again, but no one answered. Outside, the world was still—no voices, no cries, just an eerie, hollow silence.

When he finally managed to clear a small hole to the surface, the sight that met his eyes was worse than anything he had imagined. The once-bustling street was reduced to rubble, buildings crumbled into piles of concrete and twisted metal. The sky, usually a comforting blanket of blue, was now a sickly orange, tinged with smoke and dust.

He pulled himself and Leila through the opening, struggling to get his bearings. The neighbourhood was unrecognisable. The shops where they had bought sweets were gone, the places where he and his friends had played soccer obliterated. Bodies lay in the street, some covered with sheets, others not. The air was thick with the smell of burning, of death.

Yousef tried not to look, tried to focus on keeping Leila safe. She was awake now, her eyes wide with terror, but she didn’t cry. There were no tears left to shed. They wandered the streets for what felt like an eternity, searching for anyone they knew. Every step was a struggle, their legs heavy with exhaustion and fear. The few people they encountered were just as lost, just as broken. No one knew where to go, what to do.

Finally, they reached what had once been a school—a refuge now, though it offered little comfort. Families huddled together, their faces hollow with despair. Yousef sat down, pulling Leila close, trying to keep her warm as the night settled in. The last remnants of sunlight faded, and the darkness seemed to stretch on forever.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or if there would even be a tomorrow. All he knew was the pain in his chest, the emptiness where his home and family had been. He had lost everything in the blink of an eye, and the world he had known was gone, replaced by this nightmare.

But as he sat there, holding Leila, he realised one thing—he had to keep going. For her, for his mother, wherever she was. He had to survive, to find a way through this horror. He wasn’t sure how, or if it was even possible, but he knew he had no other choice.

As the first stars began to appear in the smoke-streaked sky, Yousef whispered a silent prayer. He didn’t know if anyone was listening, but it was all he had left. And as the darkness closed in, he held on to the only light he had left … hope.