The Pencil on Ground
When the bombs came, he was only packing his school bag. Not fiction. Not history. This is still happening right under our noses while the world’s biggest peace organizations watch in silence.
Copyright© 2025 Sanya Kurd
I walked beneath a calm breeze,
My homeland, its humming bees
Children devoured watermelons as feast,
I took pride in the colorful seeds.
I saw the calmness, I saw the peace,
The land of my father, the soil of bliss
I looked around, the olive trees stood tall,
Their roots unshaken, refusing to fall
As I packed my bag for school,
I heard a sound…
A sound of pain, a cry, a moan
It rattled my chest, it chilled my bone
My heart leapt up into my throat,
As I saw my mother grab her scarf
She ran barefoot, panic in her eyes,
Clutching my hand, trembling sighs
She ran and cried as we went along
I begged her to stop, “my feet, they hurt”
She snapped at me, “Stay calm! Stay alert!”
How could I calm when she screamed so loud?
I looked to the sky, once vast and proud.
There were fireworks blooming in air
Strange trajectories, full of despair
They made patterns, but it felt off
I asked my umi, “Maa, what’s wrong?”
She screamed in agony, “Son! those are bombs!”
I looked up again to follow along
The bombs were bursting in the air
Merciless, ruthless, falling upon frail,
Destroying my land, puncturing the dale.
I saw people swarming out like locusts
I witnessed my elders gathering the dust
I ran beside them, like cattle in fear,
Pushed and trampled with no one near.
I saw a baby torn apart,
Its limbs like scattered lego parts
An old man bled from a wounded head,
While medics fought to keep him from death
I wanted to vomit but had no time
My mom said, “Keep running, we’ll be fine.”
I believed her lie and held it tight,
As we turned a corner into the light
My school was reduced to twisted stone,
My backpack dropped as I stood alone
My anxiety peaked when I saw my friends
Walking out of rubble with broken ends
Their eyes were open, dreams were dead
Their wounds were open, spilling only red
I got afraid, there was a pool of blood
Children like me buried in mud
Their mothers screamed to the shattered dome:
“We belong to God, to Him we return.”
I looked to the sky, bombs still floating there,
Leaving chemicals that poisoned the air
I heard the sounds, exploding in crowd
My head spun, my heart dropped
I saw a pencil, fall on ground
where my mother paused to stop
I was away, searching for a friend
But that pencil, spelled my mother’s end.
I ran for my mother, lost her sound.
I tried to find her, nowhere to be found
I cried her name, I screamed it aloud,
Hoping she'd come and guide me out
Come hold my hand, and walk me far
from this war, from these scars
the bombs took my mother
The bombs took my school
They took my voice,
my will, my rule
They stole my dreams,
They stole my light
They left me shaking,
in an endless night.
-Sanyaa
Note: I used pencil as a metaphor of missile/rocket because a child doesn't know right away what he sees. He comprehends and arranges the information in his brain according to Jean Piaget's 4 stages of cognitive development of children.
(Umi, Maa means mother)
-I wrote this from a POV of a Gazan Child.
“My dream was to become a football player but my legs were cut off. My dream ended.”
-A Gazan Child
Background:
According to UNICEF, the children of Gaza are living through one of the most devastating humanitarian crises of our time. Over 1 million children are in urgent need of food, clean water, shelter, and medical care. Many are injured, orphaned, or deeply traumatized, having witnessed the deaths of their parents, siblings, and friends.
Hospitals are overwhelmed. Schools, once sanctuaries of learning, lie in rubble. Mental health support is nearly nonexistent, even though many children show signs of acute distress: sleeplessness, panic attacks, bedwetting, and silence.
UNICEF reports that thousands of children have been killed or maimed, and the numbers rise every day. Families are forced to flee multiple times under bombardment, with no safe place to go.
“Gaza is a graveyard for children.”
-UNICEF Spokesperson
Personal Note: Why Did I Write This?
As I compiled this from the comfort of my room, I couldn’t help but feel a heavy shame settle in my chest, the shame of our selective outrage, of western morality that seems to lose its voice when the children suffering are Arab, Black, or Brown.
This war could have been stopped long ago, if the child under the rubble were white or European.
Let me be clear: I do not support war on Ukrainian children either. No child whether Palestinian, Ukrainian, African, or otherwise, should suffer like this.
War should never be a child's inheritance.
Yet I can’t ignore the double standard.
I see amputated babies with no painkillers.
I see women screaming over lifeless infants.
I see children shivering in trauma.
I see remains of children in plastic bags.
I also saw dead bodies stored in an ice cream van. Is this normal? Do you think its normal?
I see limbs stitched without anesthesia.
I see journalists, doctors, and civilians being slaughtered with impunity.
These days, I’m seeing aid seekers (starving palestinians) being hunt like a prey when they come to get aid.
Read this, coming from a Palestinian journalist in Gaza.
No one is safe. Nothing is sacred.
There is a campaign of mass starvation unfolding in Gaza right now. It’s inhumane, it’s deliberate, it’s genocide.
A slow, suffocating extermination broadcast in real time, and yet the world looks away.
The very least we can do is raise awareness… refuse to let their stories die.
Their voices matter. Their lives matter. Their pain is not political, it’s human.
And it must stop.
Look at the death toll:
The aggression has transformed Gaza into a landscape of desolation, where nearly half of the casualties are children and thousands remain displaced. The group of experts cited over 52,535 deaths, of which 70 percent continue to be women and children, and 118,491 injuries as of 4 May 2025.
Even humanitarian workers aren’t safe. How could the world allow this in 21st century?
We promised that NEVER AGAIN, then why?
More than 5,000 children diagnosed with malnutrition in the Gaza Strip in May
An average of 112 children have been admitted for treatment every day since the beginning of 2025
-19 June, 2025
Gaza: Over 400 Palestinians killed around private aid hubs, UN rights office says
Every five seconds, a child is displaced, injured, or killed in the Middle East and North Africa’s conflicts
1 in 2 children in MENA live in a conflict-affected country; UNICEF calls for the protection of all children
-01 July, 2025
Do check out My Novel
It is based on the story of June, a 21-year-old Lebanese-Iranian girl, who feels caged by the conservative traditions of her village. She breathes freely only through her words—her poetry. After the death of her mother, Mira, she wrestles with deep loneliness, until she connects with someone who changes the way she thinks about life… without even meeting her.
Also, do check out my newsletter if you have time, “Daughter of Silence.”
Here are some underrated posts of this newsletter:
Thank you so much for reading this!
Stay Safe and Healthy. Stay updates and empathic, you beautiful soul♥
@Cassian Delmare
His cass! this was the poem that I wanted to submit but couldn't.
I wrote it because of the theme you selected so I dedicate the credit to you.
Beautiful pieced! Thanks for lending your voice.🫶