Story: “The Last Lantern

The Last Lantern

A Short Literary Story from Gaza

Editor’s Note:

This story is a work of literary fiction inspired by lived experiences of war and displacement. It reflects the resilience of children and the fragile persistence of hope in extreme darkness.

Content Note:

This story contains themes of war, displacement, and loss.

In the darkened heart of Gaza, where nights no longer ended and fear had settled into the air like dust, eleven-year-old Mariam carried a small, battered lantern. Its metal was bent, its glass cracked, and its flame weak, but it was the only thing that survived the bombing of her home. Her father had given it to her on their final night together, placing it gently in her hands and saying, “It’s not the lantern that gives light, but the hope you carry inside.” Since then, she repeated those words whenever the ground shook beneath her feet.

Now Mariam lived in a crowded shelter inside the ruins of her former school. The classrooms no longer felt like classrooms—only broken concrete and shattered windows remained. Cold wind slipped through the cracks at night, carrying dust and the distant echo of explosions. Above them, drones buzzed endlessly like metal insects that never slept. Children cried in their dreams, calling out for homes that no longer existed. Some whispered prayers. Others stayed silent, as if even their voices were exhausted. But Mariam sat upright with her lantern beside her, guarding it as if it were alive.

One quiet evening, a barefoot seven-year-old boy named Yousef approached her. His clothes were torn, and in his hands he held the broken frame of a kite made from sticks and scraps of plastic.

“Do you think kites can still fly?” he asked.

Mariam studied the torn kite, then lifted her eyes toward the dark ceiling above them and smiled softly.

“Only if we remind the sky we’re still here.”

Yousef sat beside her as she carefully lit the lantern. The candle’s flame trembled at first, fighting the cold wind that slipped through the shattered windows. For a moment, it seemed ready to die. Then it steadied. A warm, gentle glow spilled across the ruined classroom. Slowly, children began to gather around. Some wrapped themselves in thin blankets. Others held what little remained from their homes: a doll with no eyes, a burned schoolbook, a dusty backpack filled with nothing but memory. The lantern became their small island of calm in a world flooded with fear.

Yousef whispered, “Can you tell us a story?”

Mariam closed her eyes for a moment and searched her memory. Then she told them a story her grandmother once shared with her long before the war—about a glowing bird that appeared only in times of deep darkness. The bird carried tiny sparks beneath its wings, sparks strong enough to turn fear into courage and sorrow into strength. Whenever it found a child who still believed in tomorrow, the bird rested beside them and left a piece of light inside their heart.

When she finished, the room was silent. Then Yousef looked up and asked,

“Do you think the bird will find us?”

Mariam wrapped both hands around the lantern.

“I think it already has,” she said. “It just looks different for each of us.”

Outside, distant explosions shook the sky. The walls trembled, and dust fell like rain from the ceiling. But inside the broken classroom, the children leaned closer together. Their faces glowed in the lantern’s light, their eyes reflecting tiny flames of hope that refused to be extinguished.

For the first time in many weeks, Mariam felt a steady warmth grow inside her chest. Not loud. Not bright. But strong enough to stay.

She whispered,

“As long as the lantern stays lit, so will we.”

That night, the children of Gaza passed the lantern from one trembling hand to another. And with each passing, they carried something greater than light—

they carried the promise that even in endless darkness, hope still remembers how to shine.