Rain in a Room Without Walls
It’s hard to explain what a wall really means until it’s gone. To most, a wall is just stone and paint, but to me, it was my privacy, my warmth, and my dignity. Ever since the shelling took them, my home has felt less like a shelter and more like a stage, open to the cold eyes of the horizon.
Tonight, the rain didn’t knock. It didn’t wait for an invitation. It just walked right into my room. In my faith, we are taught that rain is “Al-Khair”, a gift and a mercy from the Creator. I still hold onto that belief with all my heart. I am not protesting against the heavens; I am just struggling with the cold. It is a strange, heavy thing to welcome a blessing while your body shivers from its touch and your bed is soaked by its grace.
The worst part is the evening. The thunder doesn’t sound like nature anymore; it sounds like the explosions we survived. The lightning isn’t just a light in the sky; it’s a flash of a memory I am trying to forget. Every time the wind howls through the gaps where the stones used to be, sleep becomes a distant stranger. I spend the night wide awake, moving what’s left of my life away from the puddles, waiting for a dawn where the rain stays in the clouds, and I can finally feel safe again.
I am Aseel, a writer from Gaza, living amid genocide. Your support can help my family survive. https://chuffed.org/project/138285-help-sehwel-family-with-their-medical-treatment