Gaza Lan Nunsa — لن نُنسى (We Will Not Be Forgotten)

A short story from Gaza, told through the eyes of a boy who survives what should never have been.

I had a dream last night, and when I woke in the early hours, I made a quiet promise to remember what it was about. Many of my story ideas come this way — when I’m completely still, either drifting off or just beginning to wake. That in-between place where the world softens, and the mind lets things rise.

What’s happening in Gaza, under the name of ‘self-defence’, is a crime against humanity. I’m not referring to combat between armed forces — between the IDF and Hamas, Hezbollah, or any other factions. I’m talking about the killing of innocent, defenceless civilians. About children buried beneath rubble. About families erased. About lives and culture being systematically destroyed. About the intent to ethnically cleanse — and to build a leisure resort on the bones of the innocent.

I am Welsh and I live in the UK, far from the dust and blood. Insulated. Safe. And so all I can do is look at the horrors through the safety of a screen and try to imagine what it must be like. Although I never will truly be able to. That imagining is what gave life to this short story.

I wrote it with deep respect for the people of Gaza, and in solidarity with those who have lost so much. I am not Arab, but I’ve tried to honour the language and lived experience with care and humility. If any part of this piece causes unintended harm, I unreservedly apologise and welcome correction and learning.

I don’t remember the blast.
Only the weight. Like the whole sky collapsed on me. Screaming, then silence. And after that — darkness that had shape and heat and teeth.

They say I was lucky. That word again and again.
“Shuuf — he’s still breathing.”
“He’s a miracle.”
I wanted to ask them: do miracles feel like this?
Do they cough up ash? Do they cry without tears because there’s no water left in them?

I opened my eyes to dust. It clung to my eyelashes, my tongue, the inside of my nose. Every breath scraped like glass. My ears were ringing so loudly I couldn’t hear what the man said as he pulled me out.

My fingers were curled tight around something. I didn’t even know I had it. But when they tried to pry it away, I screamed. That’s the first sound I made. I think I scared them.

It was a book. Or what used to be one.

Cloth-covered, soft-edged, hand-stitched binding. My mother made it for me and Rula, my sister. Little things inside — drawings, family recipes, jokes Baba liked to tell. Our names written in red pen. A page with our hands traced side by side.

The corner was burnt. It smelled like the house used to, when Ummi baked bread and the oven smoked. It smelled like home, and soot, and her perfume. I held it to my chest so hard I thought I’d crush it.

There was something stitched into the cover. I hadn’t noticed it before.
الله يحميك يا ابني — Allah yihmik ya ibni.
God protect you, my son.

They took me to a place full of coughing, crying, moaning. The kind of place that used to be a school, maybe, or a mosque — before it became a room where the broken are left to wait.

I asked where my mother was. A man looked down. Said he hadn’t seen her. I asked again later. A woman said nothing. Just touched my head and turned away.

I think I already knew.

There is no crying. Not yet. My body feels too dry to cry. I feel hunger, but it lives next to a bigger hollow thing. Like my insides have collapsed, just like our house.

So I open the book. One page at a time.

Rula’s drawing of a lemon tree.
My mother’s handwriting:

“Even in exile, the tree still bears fruit.”
A photo of Baba holding me in the sea, both of us laughing, frozen in a time before the sky fell in.

I ask myself:
Why us?

At night, the shelter gets quieter. Not silent — never that. There’s always someone crying, someone calling a name that doesn’t answer. Drones buzzing. Bombs dropping. Sirens wailing. People screaming.

I lie on a thin mat. The man next to me breathes in jerks. I think he’s dreaming of something bad. I envy him. I don’t sleep. I just listen.

No one has said it. Not yet. But I can feel the words waiting.

They’re all gone.

My beloved mother. My precious father. Rula, my darling sister. My tiny baby cousin. My old uncle who laughed too loudly and always gave me coins when he visited.

I keep waiting for someone I know to come in. For someone to say my name the way my mother used to — soft and stretched like honey.
Wahiiib, habibi, come wash your hands.
(حبيبي — my beloved.)
But the door keeps opening for strangers.

The air smells like sweat, infection, fear… and death.

We are hungry. We are thirsty. The little plastic cup of water is long gone. My stomach hurts, but it’s not from food. It’s from missing things I can’t name. The feel of Rula’s hand in mine. The song my father hummed when he thought no one was listening. The sound of slippers scuffing the floor.

I take out the book again. It’s become my blanket of memories. My only voice.

There’s a drawing of our old cat, Shams. She ran away during the first bombing weeks ago. I used to be angry she left.
Now I hope she’s still alive.
Hiding under a car.
Free.

There’s a recipe for lentil soup written in my grandmother’s hand. The paper is crinkled, but the words are still there:

One cup red lentils.
One chopped onion.
Water, salt, and patience.

She always said ṣabr — صبر — was the most important ingredient in Gaza.
Patience for queues.
Patience for checkpoints.
Patience for the world to remember we exist.

But I’m tired of being patient.

I look around at the others — tired faces, bruised arms, eyes that look older than the rest of them.

Why did this happen to us?
I whisper it into the folds of the book.
What did we do?

I don’t understand how people can watch this happen.
They say the world has cameras, phones, screens. That everyone knows what’s going on. That they see the smoke and the blood and the children wrapped in sheets.
So if they see us, why don’t they help?

Are we too small? Too far away? Too easy to forget?

Maybe they think we’re used to it. Like we were born to survive rubble and loss. Like it’s just what happens to children here.

Ma fi hadd yisma’na.
ما في حد يسمعنا — No one hears us.

Maybe they’re afraid.
Or maybe they just don’t care.

I think about the stories Baba used to tell me at bedtime — how Palestine is older than the maps, older than the names.
How our people are strong, like olive trees.
Roots deep in the earth, even when the branches are cut down.

But I’m twelve.
And I feel like dust.

I hold the book close to my chest and close my eyes.
I don’t cry. Not yet.
There’s a sound in my throat like thunder that won’t fall.

I try to remember how Rula laughed.
I can’t. Not the sound of it.
Only the shape of her mouth when she did.

Later, when the night turns cold and the girl beside me has fallen asleep, I open the book again.

The pages are worn now. Smudged with fingerprints. Some of the drawings are faded from my fingers holding them too tight. But they’re still here.

My family is still here.
In ink. In colour. In little scribbles and songs I’d forgotten until now.

I turn to the last blank page.
And I begin to write.

My name is Wahib. I am twelve years old.
I lived in a house with a red door and a lemon tree outside.
My sister Rula used to sing in the kitchen when she thought no one could hear.
My father loved olives and jokes.
My mother made soup with too much garlic and I never told her I liked it that way.

They are gone now. Gone forever.

I don’t know why the world let this happen.
I don’t know why we had no water. Why there was no food.
Why the sky became a weapon and the walls fell in on us.

But I know this:

We were here.

We laughed.
We ate together.
We danced at weddings and kissed each other’s cheeks.
We were not numbers.
We were not targets.
We were not forgotten — not yet.

I stop. My hand aches.
But something feels lighter, just a little.
Like I’ve given my family somewhere else to live, even if it’s only inside this book.

I press the page flat and whisper a promise into it.

“I won’t forget.”

Even if no one comes.
Even if the world stays quiet.

Lan nunsa.
لن نُنسى — We will not be forgotten.

Because this book is ours.
And I am still here.