Beacon of Heroes

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In a land where we have grown accustomed to the sound of shells being the morning" "anthem and our dreams turning into steadfast rocks; here, heroes are born.

This is how I began my mornings in Gaza.

I am a young man, living here since my birth. I did not choose Gaza, but it chose me, planting its 

love in my heart despite all the siege and pain.

Gaza, the narrow strip that struggles to breathe between the bars surrounding it on all sides, a place where, if the sun sneaks in at night, it lights up with the hearts of its children, carrying a 

light that even the fiercest bombs cannot extinguish.

I wake up every day to the buzzing of airplanes, the screams of children, and the muffled 

whispers of mothers choked with sorrow.

I open my window to see the sky covered by enemy planes and the land written upon by the feet of the resistors who plant hope in us as we plant wheat.

This enemy, who thought that Palestine was merely a land to be occupied, does not know that Palestine resides in hearts before homes, and that Gaza, even if besieged by the world, will never imprison the renewed spirit within it.

I lived every moment here as if it were my last.

I saw them, those young men who chose to make their lives a trust for the sake of protecting the land and honor. They stood like mountains against the fierce winds, and I heard stories about them pulsing with heroism.

I often met them, seeing in their eyes the passion for freedom and defiance. One day, I met a young man among them, just like all of us, a lover of this land, filled with the spirit of resistance. He invited me to join, but I felt a mix of awe and pride; it was the path every free person desires, but it is a costly one, not just for us, but for all who love us.

I knew that life here meant being ready for martyrdom, that moment where you become part of Palestinian history, where you become a symbol from which everyone draws strength.

One night, as the shelling intensified in the neighborhood, I saw that young man rushing to the front lines, racing the shells, standing firm like a rock, as if he was born to fight and die for the homeland.

Bullets rained down upon him, but he persisted, as if the shots had become part of his breath, then he disappeared into the smoke.

When we found his body after the planes had settled and the earth had fallen silent, I remembered his first words, words that reflected the pulse of every Palestinian who has lived on this land.

In a land where we have grown accustomed to the sound of shells being the morning anthem" ."and our dreams turning into steadfast rocks; here, heroes are born