Lorelle Bell

Mother in Gaza To Mothers Around the World

by Munira El Najar

To every mother who wakes her children with a kiss,
and sleeps peacefully to the sound of their laughter…
to every mother who packs a schoolbag,
or waits by the window for her child’s return…
I write to you from a place that no longer resembles life.
A place where motherhood is entangled with prayer,
where love walks hand in hand with patience,
and fear is softened only by hope.

I am a mother, just like you.
I dream only to see my children grow.
To prepare them a meal without first counting the airstrikes.
To dress them in clean clothes that don’t carry the scent of smoke.
To let them sleep without asking…
“When will the war end?”
or “Why us?”
In Gaza, we do not live — we wait.
We wait for bread, for water,
for the faint signal of safety.
We wait to count our children every evening…
and tremble at the thought that one may be missing by dawn.
Mothers of the world, we do not ask for pity — but for witness.
We do not ask for silence — but for a voice beside ours.
So that your children, when they grow up,
will know that we had children too.
That we had arms and hearts and fears, just like you.
Let the world remember —
that in Gaza, mothers still give birth under fire,
raise children in tents,
and teach them that love survives,
even in war.
From my small tent, I write to you with the voice of every mother who endured,
every mother who grieved,
and every mother who still dares to dream…
of peace.