The sirens of ambulances shattered my final hope that I was only dreaming. No—it was happening. Again.
That confusion, that suffocating disbelief—it took me back to October 7th. I peeped on my phone to be shocked that another episode of genocide had been declared.
Why? Just why? Wasn’t the brutality already committed before the world’s eyes enough? Wasn’t the blood of over 180,000 Gazans enough to satiate? Wasn’t the devastation littered across every corner enough?
Before I could even process my own questions, another airstrike cut my thoughts short. I felt everything crumbling—the efforts I had put into my future vanished before my eyes. I felt I shouldn’t have dreamt, shouldn’t have clung to life through the passing truce, shouldn’t have tasted joy. At that moment, I believed Gazans had no choice but to die.
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