A day at the Market in Gaza (true story written by @Fatima.mo_gaza IG)

Days and nights pass, and I am still waiting for your return to me with the longing of one who yearns, day dreaming of embracing the man just yesterday an infant in these arms that ache with absence. I am that cheerful face performing all the roles of a mother in a way that keeps me busy all the time, except for the constant rumination of memories of the past, anxiety about the present, and fear of the future. What can I tell? Which language, which letters can describe our suffering, the bleeding of our wounds, and our loss amidst the crowd? To Allah we complain, and He is the most merciful of the merciful…. *bridge Transitions into intense emotional scene:* A few days ago, my daughter was buying groceries from the market at the beginning of the street. with groceries in hand as she walked a few feet from the place…the entire place was bombed imagine if you can, the horror of the scene, the P.T.S.D. The anxiety of a mother, and the trauma of a little girl already twice bereaved … everyone there was martyred, turned into scattered remains. *Transition emotion builds*: My daughter was very close to death... there were only seconds between her and death. I rushed to search for her among the people to find her crying and screaming beside the wall. When she saw me, she came running, hugging me and crying, saying, 'I saw bodies scattered around me, and I saw a huge fire burning, and the sound of the explosion ripped my heart from its place... “I remembered my brother and father, mother, during these moments... how did they feel, what did they hear? How were their last moments... I thought I would join them...” What have our children done to see all this torture and all this brutality... They are still children dreaming of playing with dolls instead of scenes of waterfalls of blood and body parts... O free people of the world, save our children from death and starvation