As the sun rose on the horizon, my 13-year-old brother Kareem and I were swept into a surreal scene, where the sky sank in an unsettling hue of orange, a color not from the gentle glow of sunrise but of fierce fires.

The acrid scent of smoke caused by Israeli airstrikes hung heavy in the air, a stinky perfume haunting us with memories of past attacks. And the stillness of the dawn was shattered by the deafening blast of explosions, causing frantic tremors through the earth beneath our feet like panicked whispers of the land itself.

In this devastating theater of survival, we were but players, rehearsing the familiar script of swift evacuation and preparing to perform it again for the fourteenth time over seven months, clutching only to the few possessions we deemed essential and precious.

Useless props

Fearing that it could be cracked or stolen if we left it behind, I urged Kareem to take his iPad with him so that he could use it again after the war ends (he cannot use it now since we lack the access to stable internet), to continue pursuing his passion: UX design. His response struck me to the core.

“Will it feed me? Water me? Secure me shelter?” he challenged, refusing to take it. It’s not that he’s not obsessed with his iPad. He is, indeed; he spends most of his days when the internet is off playing games on it, but he had seen enough to mature and realize the harsh reality we live in.

But why does a child have to grow up so fast?

This terrifying awareness, this wisdom, shouldn’t belong to a child.

Despite the bitterness that colored his words and after a long conversation interrupted by another massive explosion, he took the iPad from my outstretched hand, albeit grudgingly.

A child actor

As I was struck by Kareem’s early maturity, a scene from the not-so-distant past flashed before my eyes. It was a mere two months earlier when I first witnessed the weight of responsibility settle upon his young shoulders.

He had dropped his childhood and played a vital role in putting out the fire set by an Israeli burning bomb that raged for three agonizing hours and was, perhaps, thrown on our house because we were still steadfast there.

When the bombs blasted the master bedroom in our home, wiping away all its features, Kareem didn’t hesitate to show his bravery. Even though it was Ramadan and he was fasting, he flew relentlessly up and down the stairs amid the deafening sounds of nearby explosions.

He fetched buckets full of water — the only means we had to put out the fire since we had no fire extinguisher or any other tool to do so. He brought them from the faucet in my uncle’s flat, the last one in our family building that still had water. Most importantly, he entered the burning room to help my older brother and cousin and dashed through the flames to mitigate the fire, protecting our home and those within it.

I saw the helplessness in his eyes and the courage of his actions.

Home and street become ruined stages

In this grand production of life, where every scene played out against the backdrop of conflict and turmoil, our home became just another casualty in a narrative fraught with sorrow and loss, among the 1,200 housing units demolished or set on fire in our neighborhood of the Al-Shifa Complex.

Our once lively streets, now deserted and silent, seem to echo with the ghosts of the violence and sorrow that swept through our zone.

We, the more than 25,000 civilians who were in Al-Shifa vicinity, had no choice but to flee, to leave behind everything we knew and loved in search of “safety.” Like so many other Palestinian families, we became refugees in our own land.

Young minds filled by a tragic play

Affected by being a refugee and having a theater in his mind filled with the tragic memories of those eight days of unceasing bombing, explosions, and fires, Kareem is still suffering and mentally broken. He refuses to re-engage with the world around him. The simplest pleasures of childhood, like playing games and spending time with friends, no longer bring him joy.

Kareem says he will never forget March 24, 2024, the eighth day of the Israeli invasion of Al-Shifa Hospital and its neighborhood.

As I glanced at my little brother, I couldn’t help but wonder about the countless other children like him who were forcibly robbed of their innocence and burdened with responsibilities far beyond their years. Mohammad, featured in a video I watched, is one of them.

While children his age are not allowed to take on their own responsibilities, Mohammad Al-Yazji, 14, bears it sevenfold. The unavoidably cruel reality Mohammad faces is the sharp contrast between his youthful age and the immense responsibilities thrust upon his shoulders.

Picture a boy, still on the cusp of adolescence, his world ravaged by the wicked hand of fate. His mother was taken from him in an instant by a merciless Israeli airstrike, leaving behind a void that could never be filled.

And then, his father disappeared into the rubble in search of her corpse, letting Mohammad be, compelled not by choice, the underage guardian of his seven younger siblings, the youngest merely six months old.

In every waking moment, his sole focus is on the well-being of his siblings. And all he thinks about is how to ensure that the basic needs of his younger brothers and sisters are met. From fetching milk and diapers to preparing meals and ensuring access to clean water, Mohammed spares no effort amidst the upheaval of their circumstances.

Our lives mere performances

It fills my heart with a sense of profound sadness and helplessness whenever I envision the children of Gaza growing up amid the instability of war where danger is an unwelcome constant companion, forced to prioritize survival over play. No child should have to endure such trauma or shoulder the burdens of adulthood at such a tender age.

In Gaza, childhoods are ruthlessly sacrificed at the barbarity of war, leaving behind a life where childhood is but a fleeting moment. Gaza’s adult children haven’t the luxury of exploring hobbies or playing games; instead, they’re taught how to survive and run from danger.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon and the world’s stage continued its tragic play, I couldn’t shake Shakespeare’s immortal words from my mind: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” It was as if those timeless lines echoed the truth of our existence, painting our lives as mere performances on a grand stage.

We, the Gazans, are only players in scenes not of our making; we have been thrust into playing the leads in a brutal play where everything is beyond real. Except it’s not a play.

Curtain falls!