Feeling suffocating as if a weight is pressing on his chest and cutting off his breath, the ten-year-old Gazan child "Bara'a" woke up to find the kitchen door—or what was once the kitchen before the bombing—had slid over him while he slept on a mat on the floor of his house-turned-tent after being bombed. In order not to wake his sleeping family with him, he carefully removed the door and stood. He felt the cold dawn breeze mixed with the familiar smell of smoke that had almost replaced oxygen for him. He strained his ears, hoping to catch the chirping of a bird, but under constant bombardment, a bird's existence seemed as mythical as the phoenix's. Suddenly, he mitigated his listening, fearing his ears might catch the cries of a hungry child, pleas for help, or the groans of someone trapped under the rubble. The void created by the surrounding destructed structures facilitates the propagation of even the weakest sound. He then glimpsed the usual view of the damaged houses, rubble, and ash. Today was quieter. Despite the house being bombed, the tent, that his father had set up against some pillars, made him feel the warmth and security of a home. A strange sense of tranquility filled him, a glimmer of hope that drove him to rise from his bed, and a deep faith that stirred his soul and gave him chills. Faith that injustice would end, justice would prevail, and the oppressor, despite his brutality, would be disgraced both in this world and the hereafter. This strange rising hope made him think: Why not try helping his family somehow? He thought of that while looking at his exhausted cousins from rescue work, his responsibilities-burdened father, and his disabled uncle. Yes, he would do something for them, but this time, driven not by duty but by deep hope and steadfast patience. After walking for miles, gathering papers and charred cloth scraps from the damaged houses in his path, he encountered a crowd gathered around a large cart. A crew, dressed in blue vests, was attempting to organize the crowd and distribute boxes that undoubtedly contained food supplies. He rushed himself into the crowd, but his thin frame did not support him. Despite being upset that his hands couldn't reach the boxes thrown by the blue-vested men, he could not be angry at the rushing people because they were as hungry as he was. While he was about to cry from frustration, a young man took his arm, pulled him out of the crowd, and handed him a box. He patted Bara'a's head hurriedly. Bara'a looked at him with grateful, tearful eyes, wanting to hug and thank him but didn't dare. His heart almost leapt out of his chest with joy, and he rushed home. For the first time, his family would be proud of him, allowing him to read without reproach. He loved to read and learn but in secret as he believed it is a disgrace to enjoy learning while all around him are suffering. As he approached his home, the flood of joy that filled him was interrupted by the sound of ambulance sirens nearby. His eyes widened, and his legs froze. A girl with her head almost severed from her body was being carried by a medic. Despite the blood covering her face, he could recognize her as his sister. Fear drove him to run to his home. The tent pillars were broken, and a closer look revealed blood splattered almost everywhere. He approached with bloodshot eyes, trembling lips, and a terrifying calm, moving towards the fleeing people. No one paid him any attention. He grabbed a medic' from his hand, he tried to shake him off, but Bara'a threw himself at his feet. “Just tell me what happened!” "It was an operation to free enemy captives. Their soldiers disguised themselves in civilian clothes and shot everyone in their path. 221 innocents were killed for freeing four captives." He asked with incapacity, "My family?!" " Son… God delays but does not neglect." Then he left. Bara'a dragged himself to a quiet corner away from the chaos and strikes. He introverted, groaning, feeling life ebb away. His only comfort was the certainty of his near death. Here, ends our story with Bara'a, but his story has not ended. Even if it is a figment of imagination, the harsh reality of Gaza weaves many other stories that are even more painful and tormenting.