The Struggle Of Gaza Girl

A ten-year-old girl named (Yumn) and her seven-year-old younger brother, (Zain) clung tightly to their mother, trembling in fear as tears streamed down their faces. “Calm down, both of you. Don’t panic. I know you’re scared,” their mother said softly, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. Outside, the sounds of war never ceased. Explosions from bombs and rockets echoed relentlessly, one after another, as if waiting for their home to become the next target. “Where is Father, Mom? Why hasn’t he come back yet?” Zain murmured weakly, his voice trembling with fear. Their city was under attack. Everything had collapsed—electricity, water, markets. There was nowhere left to turn, no place to seek shelter. All they had left was their faith in Allah. They lived in eastern Gaza, having settled there shortly after the Israel–Egypt ceasefire in 2005. It had been five years since then. Now, Hamas had taken de facto control of Gaza, as Israeli involvement and occupation still lingered. Whether they wanted it or not, Hamas stood as both protector and the last line of defense for the people of Gaza. After Hamas won the election, Gaza was placed under blockade by both Egypt and Israel. There were seven political parties in Palestine, but two dominated the landscape: Fatah and Hamas. Fatah—the Palestinian National Liberation Movement—was composed mostly of government officials, centered in Jerusalem. They sought independence through negotiations, though those efforts had yet to bear fruit. Hamas, on the other hand—the Islamic Resistance Movement—consisted of fighters dedicated to the liberation of Al-Aqsa and Palestine, driven by strong anti-Zionist beliefs and a spirit of struggle. Yumn had been fasting for two days, breaking her fast with nothing more than a piece of wheat bread, which she split in half to share with her brother. The electricity had been out for a week, and their situation showed no sign of improving. Zain’s soft sobs filled the room as he called out for their father. He was terrified and hungry. They hadn’t left the house for ten days. They had only one pot of clean water, used sparingly for suhoor and iftar. For prayer, they performed tayammum, using dust from the walls in place of water. Yumn—that was the girl’s name. “Yumn, if your father doesn’t come back tomorrow, you need to go outside and see what’s happening. Check if any aid has arrived. We have no food left,” her mother said gently. “Yes, Mom. Let me go. You stay here with Zain,” Yumn replied firmly. The next morning, after performing the dawn prayer, Yumn hurried toward the nearest mosque. “Maybe there are still people there who haven’t gone home yet,” she thought. She stood silently beside one of the mosque’s pillars, waiting for someone—anyone—to come out, hoping she could ask for something to eat for her family. Soon, five young men and an older man walked out together. Gathering her courage, Yumn approached them. “Excuse me, sir… My mother, my brother, and I have no food at home. My father hasn’t returned for a week. Do you have anything we could eat?” she asked timidly. The men exchanged glances, their brows furrowed. “Where is your house? What is your father’s name?” one of them asked, speaking Arabic with a slightly unusual accent. “My house is just over there… My father’s name is Abidzzar Bisyir Arrazi,” Yumn answered. They led her to a house not far away—only about a hundred meters from the mosque. “This is all we can give,” said the older man, handing her a plastic bag filled with milk, eggs, and wheat flour. “Alhamdulillah… Thank you, sir. I’m truly grateful. May Allah reward your kindness,” Yumn said sincerely. “I think I’ve heard your father’s name before. You should go to the hospital or a volunteer post… try to find him,” the man suggested. “Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll go after I take this food home.” With a heart full of relief, Yumn returned home carrying the supplies. Her mother and brother welcomed her with joy when they saw what she had brought. “Alhamdulillah,” her mother said. “I’ll cook something first. You two wait and read the Qur’an.” “Mom, I want to go to the volunteer post. They said I should look for Father. It’s been a week—that’s too long,” Yumn said. “Alright, but don’t take too long. Come back quickly. You haven’t eaten since last night,” her mother replied. “Yes, Mom.” After saying goodbye, Yumn set out to find the volunteer post. After asking several people, she finally found it. There were many unfamiliar faces there—short men wearing brown vests. Nervous and hesitant, Yumn gathered her courage and approached them. “Excuse me… I’m looking for my father. Can you help me find him? He hasn’t come home for a week.” “What is your father’s name, my sister?” one of them asked gently. “Abidzzar Bisyir Arrazi, sir.” The man flipped through a notebook, scanning the pages. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un… Your father has been martyred, my sister. He passed away four days ago. He has been buried in a mass grave with other fighters,” the volunteer said softly. Yumn’s legs trembled. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard. “What will happen to Mother and Zain without Father?” she thought, her heart breaking. Tears streamed down her face as she collapsed to the ground, covering her face, sobbing uncontrollably. The volunteers looked at her with sorrow. One of them draped a blanket over her shoulders and spoke quietly to the others in a language she didn’t understand. He then picked up a box—Yumn didn’t know what was inside. “Come, little sister. I’ll take you home. Let me explain everything to your mother,” he said gently, his Arabic still slightly accented. Together, they walked back. Along the way, the volunteer tried to comfort her. “Be patient, my sister. Allah’s help will surely come. Stay strong through this test. No one in this world lives without trials—everyone is being tested in their own way.” When they arrived, Yumn ran straight to her mother, crying. Her mother was already in tears, as if she had known all along. The volunteer stood quietly as they embraced each other, weeping. Meanwhile, Zain, unaware of what had happened, curiously opened the box. “Mom, what’s inside? Toys or food?” he asked, holding up a can of tuna. “Food, my dear… not toys,” she replied, wiping her tears with her hijab. They sat together on the floor, on a thick cloth like a carpet, as the volunteer gently explained everything. “Are you from Indonesia?” the mother asked. “Yes, ma’am. I am,” he replied. “I could tell from the way you speak. Your people are kind. Since I was a young girl, my father and grandfather always told stories about your nation. Please send our greetings to the people of Indonesia who continue to help us.” “I will, ma’am,” he said softly. After that, the volunteer took his leave. Yumn lay down, covering her face with a blanket, still crying. Nearby, her mother sat by the door, staring blankly at the wall, tears flowing endlessly down her cheeks.