The path from Rafah to Jannah is very busy, it’s full of children.

Schools are destroyed, homes flattened, and playgrounds turned into battlegrounds. Yet, the children of Gaza play among the ruins with the cheerfulness that remains, as if defying the world to see that they can still smile.

Just like all kids, they also have dreams. However, while others dream of becoming doctors, entrepreneurs, soldiers, architects, or teachers, Gaza’s children dream of seeing their mothers again.

“I dream of seeing my mother.”

“I dream of my brother.”

“I dream of my father returning.”

They dream to be as simple as being reunited with their loved ones who were separated from them in the most inhumane ways.

When I think of death as the most painful farewell — that one whose grief might never heal, the children of Gaza know it all too well. They are familiar with death — seeing hundreds of lives taken each day, most of the time unrecognizable.

But how does it feel to watch a loved one die before your eyes? To see their bodies torn apart, hands separate from feet, faces shattered beyond recognition.

“I dream of eating shawarma.”

While I complain about thing like, “This isn’t the meal I wanted today,” children in Gaza only wish for something as simple as shawarma. They endure days of hunger or forced to endure it because there’s no food to eat, and only clinging to faith that God hears their cries.

Water is abundant in my home, but Gaza’s children must walk miles for a drop that barely quenches their thirst.

Then what kind of gratitude have I shown for living in such comfort?

My gratitude pales in comparison, while my sighs are louder than theirs.

“Is it right that children around the world can live and play in comfort and safety, while we live in death and destruction?”

No, my dear. One day, you will wake to the sound of birds, not bombs. One day, you will play with friends, not mourn lost limbs. One day, you will return to school, not witness death on the streets.

They say each new day brings new hope. But for Gaza’s children, a new day means waiting for a new fate — whether they will live or be the next to die. Death is closer than their pulse, and destruction is their daily bread.

“Does the world not see us?”

I see you. We see you. But indeed, the world is cruel place after all. Millions cry out for freedom, yet we are ruled by those who feel refreshed as their thirst is quenched by drinking blood of innocent children and women.

“Can I enter heaven with just one hand?”

Even I, with all my limbs intact, doubt my place in heaven. Dear, your missing hand will not keep you from running freely and laughing heartily in heaven. Heaven sees not the completeness of your body but the purity of your soul.

For the children of Gaza, heaven isn’t just something abstract. To them, heaven is the freedom to play without fear, to attend school without threats, and to sleep at night without nightmares of bombs and raids. They deserve a happy childhood just like any other child in the world.

And now, heaven is full with the laughter of Gaza’s childrem, though on earth they have run out of tears.

The world is not a kind place for the faithful. So, fly high, dear. You are now free.

Pick those beautiful flowers in heaven’s gardens, run wherever you wish, and eat whatever you desire.

There you will not be punished for breathing. There you will not be beheaded for being powerless. There you will not be burned alive for being weak.

And the land will forever belong to you.

One day, colorful flowers will bloom over it, nurtured by the seeds of your determination and your sincere love for the land. You will be reborn in the place where you truly belong, as beautifully and as strongly as who you are.