Families: Reflections of A Person Not From Gaza pt.6

As I took a little walk this evening, I passed by an orphanage. I always pass by it, but I don’t give it much thought except “it’s an orphanage” and I move on. Tonight, though, as I walked with my father, I slowed down a bit and told him, “I think they’re making donuts. It smells like donuts.”
After that comment, I realized the kids in there do not have families. They live together; all are probably different except for that fact. I have my family, though. Sometimes, I forget how lucky I am to have people to yell at me and for me to yell back at over little things. I forget how lucky I am to text one of my best friends to tell her how much I hate them sometimes and how much they annoy me. I forget how lucky I am when I pray to God to thank Him for keeping them. I forget how lucky I am for having people to go back home to. I forget how lucky I am to be loved and cared for by my own blood. I forget how lucky I am to be taking a walk in the neighborhood with family.
I remembered, though, when I passed by the orphanage. I remembered when I got home and turned on the television to see Israel perform another massacre in Jabalia, Gaza Strip, Palestine.
I couldn’t but help and think that when this is all over – and I hope it is sooner rather than later – of the number of orphans that will be left behind. I couldn’t help but think of how the young man from Gaza that graduated from BZU (and I never got a name) didn’t have his family there to cheer him on because they weren’t allowed to leave Gaza. Where are they now?
I stared at the TV screen and watched as the ambulance went to pick up people and bodies from under the rubble. Some were dead. Some were living. Some were barely making it through, holding their index fingers in the air to say their final “I witness that there is not god but Allah and that Muhammad (PBUH) is his messenger.”
Those images scarred me, but the images that brought tears to my eyes were that of family members that were not physically hurt. Instead, they were calling their loved ones, falling on the ground in despair, screaming, cursing the Arab world that is silent, praying to God, and telling their kids that so and so just died.
“You’re lying. Let me see! You’re lying to me!” A girl (probably 7 or 8 years old) was screaming and sobbing, holding a white piece of cloth to her head.
Someone told her that someone that she loved was just killed…and they weren’t lying. Gaza is not lying to you, world.

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