Two years ago, in the heart of Gaza, where over half of the population is under the age of 18, filmmakers asked its children a simple question: “What is your dream?”
Their responses were an echo of whispered desires and bold visions:
“I want to become a doctor,” they said, their eyes gleaming with the promise of healing.
“I dream of being a pilot, to soar through boundless skies,” their aspirations taking flight.
“To become an engineer, to build our homeland,” a commitment to a more solid future.
“I wish to be a princess, in a castle high above the clouds,” a whimsical escape from their harsh reality.
“To be free,” they longed for a world without the heavy burden of conflict.
“To halt the bombings, to end the devastation,” a cry for safety.
“To return to my grandfather’s old house,” a yearning for the embrace of cherished memories.
And then, amidst these dreams, one young soul, his cheeks tarnished with the dust of war, uttered a phrase that cut to the core of their collective longing: “to return home.”
When asked to explain his answer, he spoke from a place of deep sincerity, “Is there a bigger dream than returning home?”
Yet, the cruel reality persists— for most of these heartfelt dreams will remain buried beneath the unforgiving rubble, a stark testament to the relentless brutality and violence these innocent children endure, and the world’s silent indifference.
Short Story by Iza Tinsay