maal

😴

[Dr. Ezzideen @ezzingaza]

This morning, I was supposed to go and prepare the medical tent. There was still work to be done: a few tarpaulins to fasten, some chairs and a table to find. It should have been a simple day of labor, a day of purpose.
But in our land, even the simplest day conspires against meaning.

My mother told me that a store nearby was selling chicken, real chicken, at a price decreed by the Ministry of Economy. In another world, this would have been nothing, a trivial errand. But here in Gaza, the rumor of food moves faster than hope itself.

I hesitated for a moment: should I finish my work for the clinic, or chase after a meal for my family?
A man can live without purpose, perhaps, but not without feeding his mother. So I went.

At a quarter to nine, I arrived to find a line already stretching beyond sight. I stood among the others, hollow-eyed men and women who had forgotten the meaning of haste or dignity.
We no longer queue for food. We queue for existence.
The sun climbed, hours passed, and just when I reached the door, they told us the chicken was gone.

Gone.
After three hours of waiting, gone, like everything else in this life that vanishes just as your fingers begin to touch it.

I felt no anger, only the quiet paralysis of a man who has learned that outrage is useless. Someone said there was meat being sold elsewhere.
Meat! The word itself sounded biblical, ancient, forbidden, miraculous. I climbed onto a cart pulled by a half-broken car and let it carry me through the sandy streets, the midday sun above like an accusing god, the dust entering my lungs like the residue of centuries.

I thought of nothing except this: that I might bring back flesh to my home after months of absence, that perhaps my mother might cook again, that the house might once more smell of life instead of canned death.

She called as I was on my way.
“Did you find anything?” she asked. “Or shall I start with the tins?”
“Wait for me,” I told her. “I’ll bring meat.”
I believed it when I said it. I wanted to believe it.

At one in the afternoon I reached the new store.
Another queue.
Another congregation of silent faces, united by despair.
I waited until four. When I finally entered, I found chaos: people shouting, pushing, their eyes wide with that same trembling hunger that turns human beings into something half divine, half animal.

Then came the words, shouted from behind the counter: “It’s gone. All of it.”

And in that moment, something broke in me, not from anger, but from the realization that our lives here are no longer measured by years or achievements, but by the distance between one failed queue and the next.

How long can a man live like this, in a time where time itself has no meaning, where days are consumed by waiting, and waiting consumes the soul?
What is left of human dignity when survival itself becomes a queue that always ends in nothingness?

I walked back through the market, my body moving though my spirit had stopped long ago. Around me, the stalls overflowed with cheap sweets, candies, and bright packages that glowed like false promises. Sugar everywhere, the illusion of nourishment, the mockery of life.
We have grown swollen from emptiness, like balloons filled not with breath but with airless sweetness that will soon burst.

I bought some of those sweets in the end, not out of desire but shame. Shame to return to my mother’s waiting eyes with empty hands after nine hours of existence.
I handed her the package as if it were a confession.

And as I watched her unwrap it, I thought that perhaps this is what war truly is. Not the bombs, not the rubble, but this slow corrosion of meaning, this transformation of human beings into shadows chasing the rumor of sustenance.

So tell me, if you can,
Has the war really ended?
Or has it merely changed its form, sinking deeper into our flesh, where it will go on living long after the last gun has fallen silent?

#WoundedGaza

[أنس الشريف Anas Al-Sharif @AnasAlSharif0]

This is my will and my final message. If these words reach you, know that Israel has succeeded in killing me and silencing my voice. First, peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessings.

Allah knows I gave every effort and all my strength to be a support and a voice for my people, ever since I opened my eyes to life in the alleys and streets of the Jabalia refugee camp. My hope was that Allah would extend my life so I could return with my family and loved ones to our original town of occupied Asqalan (Al-Majdal). But Allah’s will came first, and His decree is final. I have lived through pain in all its details, tasted suffering and loss many times, yet I never once hesitated to convey the truth as it is, without distortion or falsification—so that Allah may bear witness against those who stayed silent, those who accepted our killing, those who choked our breath, and whose hearts were unmoved by the scattered remains of our children and women, doing nothing to stop the massacre that our people have faced for more than a year and a half.

I entrust you with Palestine—the jewel in the crown of the Muslim world, the heartbeat of every free person in this world. I entrust you with its people, with its wronged and innocent children who never had the time to dream or live in safety and peace. Their pure bodies were crushed under thousands of tons of Israeli bombs and missiles, torn apart and scattered across the walls.

I urge you not to let chains silence you, nor borders restrain you. Be bridges toward the liberation of the land and its people, until the sun of dignity and freedom rises over our stolen homeland. I entrust you to take care of my family. I entrust you with my beloved daughter Sham, the light of my eyes, whom I never got the chance to watch grow up as I had dreamed.

I entrust you with my dear son Salah, whom I had wished to support and accompany through life until he grew strong enough to carry my burden and continue the mission.

I entrust you with my beloved mother, whose blessed prayers brought me to where I am, whose supplications were my fortress and whose light guided my path. I pray that Allah grants her strength and rewards her on my behalf with the best of rewards.

I also entrust you with my lifelong companion, my beloved wife, Umm Salah (Bayan), from whom the war separated me for many long days and months. Yet she remained faithful to our bond, steadfast as the trunk of an olive tree that does not bend—patient, trusting in Allah, and carrying the responsibility in my absence with all her strength and faith.

I urge you to stand by them, to be their support after Allah Almighty. If I die, I die steadfast upon my principles. I testify before Allah that I am content with His decree, certain of meeting Him, and assured that what is with Allah is better and everlasting.

O Allah, accept me among the martyrs, forgive my past and future sins, and make my blood a light that illuminates the path of freedom for my people and my family. Forgive me if I have fallen short, and pray for me with mercy, for I kept my promise and never changed or betrayed it.

Do not forget Gaza… And do not forget me in your sincere prayers for forgiveness and acceptance.

Anas Jamal Al-Sharif
06.04.2025

This is what our beloved Anas requested to be published upon his martyrdom.

[maal @maaalmohmed]

@HasanEssam29636 .

[ATP Tour @atptour]

And we'd be here for you.

#RForever | @rogerfederer

[Dr. Omar Suleiman @omarsuleiman]

Not only do I admire the stunning beauty of what He has created and shown us here, but I long for what He has prepared for us in the next life that no worldly lens could ever capture should we be entered into His paradise.

Oh Allah, let us see and experience it eternally. Ameen