Ahmad, Hassan, and Hamada on the beach in Gaza, April 5, 2025. Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish

The sea is the only place in Gaza where the sky doesn’t feel like a ceiling for dreams and hopes. It has always been a loyal friend to every ambitious person, offering them inspiration as they gaze at the endless horizon—just like their dreams. It also serves as a romantic place for couples, as they sit upon the warm sand, watching the sun tenderly embrace the shore while it sinks beyond the horizon. For children and their families, the sea is a joyful escape, where they build sandcastles, splash in the waves, and create lasting memories together.

For me, the sea has always been my silent companion, listening whenever I felt overwhelmed.

These moments belonged to a time before the genocide began—before even a simple journey to the beach became a risk, threatened by Israeli bombings and the random shelling of gunboats. When the ceasefire began in Gaza, we thought that, finally, we could relive those precious feelings once again. For the first time in what felt like forever, we began to sense the rhythm of normal life returning.

That feeling didn’t last long. On the night of March 18, 2025, the occupation suddenly launched airstrikes on several areas, shattering the silence with terrifying explosions. All of Gaza was once again shocked by the realization that the nightmare of genocide had returned—and may never end. I started to believe that we, as Palestinians, are condemned to live in fear for as long as the occupation exists, as if our right to peace is denied by its very presence.

Amid the chaos a few weeks ago, my two friends—Hassan Abu Qamar and Hamada Al Taban—and I decided to take a walk to the Gaza beach. We wanted to try to catch our breath, to take a break from this life based only on survival—a life where even taking a breath since October 2023 has become a luxury.

When we arrived, we noticed that the beach looked unusually abandoned. No children were swimming, no fishermen were casting their nets, and no families were gathered with laughter or music. It was as if the soul of the place had vanished, leaving only the sound of waves and our heavy thoughts behind.

We climbed to the highest point on the beach to enjoy the best view of the sea. We sat in silence for a while. Each of us was lost in our own world, a world of inner peace, or at least a place where our minds could pretend. We simply stared at the glowing horizon, trying to steal a few quiet moments before returning to the harshness of reality.

As we looked out at the sea, Hassan broke the silence with a spontaneous question: “What lies beyond the sea?”

“What lies beyond the sea?” Photo: Ahmad Mohmmad Abushawish

It was meant as a geographical question, but instantly, deeper ideas filled our minds. We were quiet for a moment, then I replied,

“I think there’s a completely different world out there. They say the world is round, that it keeps turning. But here, it feels like time has stopped—or even gone backward 100 years. I don’t think the horizon line is just a geographical separation. It’s also a boundary between two realities: one where wishes are fulfilled, dreams come true, and ambition finds a place to grow, and another where dreams remain dreams.”

Hamada had a different vision of what lay beyond the sea. To him, the horizon wasn’t the edge of a spinning world. It was a question mark, a silent witness to our crisis. “I believe the entire world beyond that line,” he said, “whether complicit or indifferent, has either agreed to our destruction—or is silently watching us being murdered.”

“All of them?” Hassan replied firmly. “Don’t forget those who stood—and still stand—with us. The whole world took to the streets, demanding an end to the war.”

Hamada looked at him, his voice low but sharp. “Has the war stopped?” he asked. “What difference do their protests make if the genocide continues? What does it matter what they say, when what we live is still death?”

“Don’t blame them,” Hassan said softly. “They’re just like you and me. They did what they were able to do. Sometimes, just knowing that there are people out there who think of us every day and try, in their own way, to help—this gives me a reason to hold on.”

“I don’t see the world through the same rosy lens you do,” I said quietly. “Yes, those people exist—but here we are, sitting by an open sea, and we still can’t even imagine what lies beyond it. It’s like living beside a door you’ll never walk through. They say the sea connects people—but here, it only reminds us how far we are from the rest of the world.”

Hassan paused, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Remember,” he added, “there’s no pure white in this world, and no absolute black either. We couldn’t imagine what lies beyond the sea—but at least, one day, we will. Just like the sea, which is touched by war, but still, at the end of the day, meets the sun.”

“I don’t know what’s on the other side of the water,” Hamada said, “but I know it’s not war. I believe there’s a place where bombs don’t answer the sky’s silence.”

The narratives we each carry about the horizon may differ, but I’m certain of one thing: One day, I will break through that line and travel the world to tell our stories. The miracles we created amid this nightmare is a story worth preserving forever—the simple fact that we are still surviving and standing firm on our land, enduring hunger, bombardment, and the horrifying scenes that unfold each day.

Until that day comes, I hope the world stops seeing us as numbers—and starts seeing us as dreamers on the shore who deserve to make our dreams a reality.