We had been waiting for the sound of gunfire to quiet down for a week. Waiting, as if walking on embers, dreaming of a peace that never arrives, counting the hours like someone anticipating an explosion they don’t know the time of. Every moment that passes feels like it could be the end… and yet we’re constantly surprised that the end hasn’t come. But life dies slowly.
Each morning, I open my eyes to a heavy silence—not the silence of safety, but the silence of fear. The next explosion might hit us, or maybe just pass us by. The truce we waited for never came, or perhaps it betrayed us. Negotiations froze, while our nerves melted, as if we were just paper sheets shuffled on a distant table we’re not invited to—but punished by its decisions.
Every day, my children ask me, “Daddy, will our kindergarten reopen?” “Will food come when the war stops?” “Can we buy candy and go to the beach again?” And I smile at them—an empty smile, pretending to believe the lie with them, as if I still have promises to give, while deep inside, I don't even hold certainty for the coming morning.
Each day, I go out searching for food for my children. I leave the house not knowing if I’ll return. I search every corner, every dumpster, every scent. One day, I found a piece of stale bread. I came back to my children as if I had brought a gift from the heavens. They don’t understand war yet—they only know their stomachs hurt and that the fridge has become an empty box that only opens to deepen the pain.
In a distant tent, my brother’s wife gave birth to her child. My brother and I are the only survivors of this genocide. He now holds his baby in his arms, without even a diaper to wrap him in. The newborn came into the world underweight, as if his body didn’t quite trust life. I wanted to go and see him—to say, “Welcome, little one, despite the shelling.” But the road is too dangerous. It's filled with fires, snipers, and checkpoints that ask questions and shoot before waiting for answers. I didn’t go… and I don’t know if I ever will.
My wife’s family is still there. They refused to evacuate. They said, “Dying among our people is better than dying as strangers.” There was no place for them to go anyway. There are no more safe places—only tents or open graves. Her father tells me over the trembling phone, “We’re not leaving them. There’s nowhere to go.” And I can't say “You’re right,” nor can I ask him to leave. Every option has become a different shape of death.
Food prices have skyrocketed. A loaf of bread is now a treasure. A bag of flour is sold like a weapon. A kilo of rice has become a dream. Every day I sit and think: How will I provide enough? Do I sell the last thing I own? Do I knock on doors I know are shut? My mind is trapped in thoughts of a meal, winter, and a hungry child. Their eyes look at me as if to say, “Daddy, we trust you… don’t let us down.”
My children have grown used to the sound of explosions. They can now tell the difference between a shell and a missile, between nearby and distant strikes. But they still ask, “Daddy, when will we go back home?” “When will the war end?” And I answer, “Soon”… not knowing if that’s the nearest lie or the harshest hope. Sometimes, I hear them playing a game: “Who will die first?” and they laugh—as if they’ve turned tragedy into a joke so it doesn’t break them.
Today, I stood in a line unlike any line we’ve known. No order, no reassurance, no promise of reaching the front. A line of hungry eyes, trembling hands, and hearts that shake more than the bodies. I was searching for bread—not fresh bread, not even good bread—just something edible. I returned home with empty hands, and a heart full of pain. But I found them… still waiting. They hugged me, as if I had returned with all the bread in the world. They didn’t blame me. They just said, “You tried, Dad.”
Today, I seriously considered going to what they call “the American aid centers.” But here, we don’t utter that name without our souls shivering. In the street, people now call them something else, something more honest: “The death box.” Everyone who went there returned with something… or never returned at all. They say there’s aid—flour, oil, even biscuits. But behind every bag of flour stands a sniper. And behind every box of aid… a shell may fall. People walk toward it like they’re attending their own funerals—with a desperate hope for salvation, and a deep fear of the end.
Now I stand in a maze called “America.” Do I starve with them… or die away from them? I wrote my will: “Forgive me if I leave before I’ve fed you.” And for the first time, I cried in front of the mirror… I didn’t see my face—I saw a father terrified of leaving his children while they’re still waiting for candy.
Every time I hear a nearby blast, my heart jumps. Not because I fear death… but because I fear dying before saying goodbye to my kids. I wonder what face they’ll remember me with. Will it be a corpse covered in dust? Or a smiling father who suddenly disappears? I fear becoming a sad story told on a dark night. That they remember my laugh—not because they heard it often, but because it was rare.
My nephew was born just days ago. I wanted to go see him, but I couldn’t. Everything on the road to him said: “Return… or don’t return at all.” I couldn’t take the risk. But I miss him. I miss a new life born despite everything. I imagine him at night, holding him in my mind, whispering to him: “You are a small victory… against all the defeats.” Maybe when the war ends—if it ends—I’ll tell him about the night I cried because he never got to see his uncle.
And so… the days pass. Nothing changes but the number of graves. My children are growing up in fear. And I… am trying not to fall apart.
To be continued…
There are still stories untold. I will tell you about the dreams that survived under the rubble… and the ambitions that didn’t die despite all this ash. I will tell you about a tomorrow that hasn’t come… but I wait for it like the thirsty wait for a drop of water. Because the story hasn’t ended… it began from the heart of the ashes.