Decisions are made behind the curtain and doors are closed… Then a circle of fire surrounds the city. And every time Gaza gets up sharpened... Gaza is the name of a power whose name we hear through massacres, deaths and destructions. It was a city that carried the footprints of prophets, valiants, and friends of Allah who raised love in their hearts.
Gaza is like an army that shelters thousands of widows, orphans and survives despite all the attacks… It is like a loyal and determined mother who carries the suffering of her children on her shoulders. And we all carry separations, deaths and mournings of that city in our hearts. Gaza is a compassion that embraces orphan children, a wounded heart, a prayer rising to the sky in our memory...
Cities, like people, have their fate and suffering… Gaza is a wounded soldier who bears the burden of the children he carries on his chest and has faced poverty, thirst, loneliness and the most vicious killers of the age… Gaza lives the same fate as the people he carries on his chest and while the laments rising from its streets reach the sky, he forgets his wound. and bid farewell to its martyrs… Gaza is an honorable soldier, dons its courage against the world's most advanced weapons, and strikes fear into the hearts of its executioners.
Gaza… A generous and loyal city with martyrs under its soil and centuries-old plane trees on top!
You see, the doors were closed again… Dark scenarios were written and Gaza was tested once again with the ring of fire falling on its head. The men, reclining in comfortable armchairs, broadcast show messages, and then the corpses of murdered children and women were put on display all over the world. While Gaza's heart was burning, people watched those images as if they were excerpted from the movie.
While a girl who was hit by bullets was thrown to the ground, tears flowed from the pupil of the city and the whole realm of existence stopped in prayer. What crime can a five-year-old girl do? The ring of fire that surrounded the city hit the children at the most exciting moment of the games, and they said goodbye without knowing why the evil was targeting them. Buildings were bombed in Gaza, children, the elderly and young people were massacred, and the fire burned all of us, not the place where it fell.
You know, the global crisis, the Zionist president's concerns about the election, the expansion plans of the occupying forces, and local and global accounts are always designed behind doors, while poverty, suffering, pain and sadness fall on the share of oppressed peoples.
Gaza is a wounded city that shares the fate of the oppressed Palestinian people! I don't know how many times it was attacked at term, how many martyrs were bid farewell, how many children hugged the mutilated corpses… Gaza is a wounded mother that we carry in our hearts!
While we are counting the future, images of murdered mothers, fathers and children are displayed and Gaza is washing its blood-smelling lands again with hope. Gaza is a lonely and wounded city that has suffered with its martyrs and valiants.
The pains of children whose games are unfinished are sharpened with anger as they get stuck in your throat, and you expect an honorable attitude to raise your head and say stop to the murderers. But it is a pity that our administrators are content with only a message of condemnation. They always condemn, the murderers always kill, they change direction according to commercial and political plans, they talk about normalization and developing good relations, and this situation increases the courage of the executioners.
Gaza… With its mothers, fathers, children, homes integrated with pain, centuries-old olive trees and historical places that were the target of the massacres, it is resisting against the most ferocious oppressors of the age. Gaza is not a place made up of stone and earth for us, it is a symbol of resistance, a value, a stance…
O city that smells of blood!
Blessed town that bears the footprints of prophets, martyrs and many honorable figures!
We know that the blood flowing in its streets is the blood of Omar, the blood of Saladin, the blood of Sheikh Yasin and his grandchildren. The pain you feel in your chest is our pain, and now we run out of our patience, waiting for the victory to come at dawn. We hear the footsteps of the sun and we renew our hopes every morning…