Gaza War: The Second Day,
By: M. Murtaja
It wasn’t a normal morning, nor had last night really ended. In war, there are no clear boundaries between days—they blend into an endless maze of fear, exhaustion, and aimless running.
I woke up to the sound of a nearby explosion but didn’t move. The noise had become part of our day, like a racing heartbeat that never calms. There was no breakfast, just stale bread and a shared bottle of water, as if we were rationing our days along with our supplies.
Outside, the air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, and faces were pale. A speeding car passed by, a young man jumped out, shouting: “They bombed them!” He didn’t say who or where—he didn’t need to. We knew the list wasn’t over yet.
I went to the hospital, not because I was injured, but to witness life amidst the death. People sat on the floor, hands clasped together in fragile hope. Children cried, doctors ran, and blood was everywhere. I saw a man staring blankly at the ceiling, as if his soul had left with the ones he lost.
I returned before sunset, carrying in my mind the names of the martyrs I had heard about today. I hadn’t written them down, but they clung to my memory. I sat next to my mother. She looked at me and smiled despite everything, saying: “It will pass.”
But I knew the war had only just begun, and the worst was yet to come.
