Amena and the Sky of Gaza

14 months ago, in the refugee camp I met a little girl. Her bright smile, big round eyes, and rosy cheeks made her seem adorable to everyone. That little girl’s name was Amena—a cheerful child who always managed to make others laugh. She was the complete opposite of me, who had grown silent over time.

The events haunted me deeply: explosions and gunfire everywhere, roaring fighter jets, collapsing buildings, and cries for help. Bodies scattered on the streets, often dismembered, leaving behind only shattered pieces. The sand, once light brown turned dark red with blood. There were screams of anguish and continuous prayers for safety. People were starving, scavenging the ground or eating grass. Survivors endured excruciating pain, either from injuries or losing their limbs. During the rain or cold winters, there was no warmth—only huddling together to survive the freezing temperatures. There were no homes, warmth, or peace here. Death could come at any time, anywhere.

My family was gone, crushed under the debris of our home. By Allah’s decree, I was the only one who survived, now left utterly alone. The atmosphere in the camp provided some semblance of safety. Many volunteers from various countries came to help us here. Still, like me, other children bore deep trauma from this genocide. But Amena was different. She was always cheerful, and I never once saw her cry. She was like an angel, bringing comfort to the children here—even though she was a child herself.

Amena comforted me, too. To me she seemed wiser than her years, even more mature than I was. She once asked me “Will there ever be a day without explosions and gunfire here? A day where we feel safe again?” She eagerly awaited that day. I could only smile and answer “Insha’Allah, one day it will become a reality.”

Everyone loved Amena. To me, she was like my little sister. She taught us all the meaning of patience and resilience. She reminded us that no matter how difficult our trials, they could still be faced with smiles and faith. She taught us that even in times like these, there’s always room for a warm smile and laughter.

But one day, when Amena went to play with the other children not far from the camp, a sudden explosion struck a building nearby. The sound was deafening, close to where the children were playing. Immediately, I and some of the adults rushed to the scene to check on the children. I ran, praying that Amena and the others were unharmed.

But my hopes were shattered. Amena was injured—her head struck hard by debris from the explosion. The other children were safe, including one child whom Amena had protected, though they were in shock.

I carried Amena in my arms and ran toward the medical camp, my clothes soaked with her blood. I kept calling her name, urging her to stay conscious. While I ran, Amena spoke to me saying she saw her family in the sky and felt that her time was near. She asked me to keep smiling if she passed away and to pray for her. Hearing her words I ran even faster, tears streaming down my face, until I reached the medical camp. The medics immediately sprang into action when they saw me carrying Amena. She was rushed inside, and they began emergency treatment.

The doctors and medical team did everything they could for Amena. Her consciousness began to fade, and her breathing weakened. Even as she lost consciousness, Amena still wore a smile on her face. Finally, the doctor checked her pulse and declared her a martyr. Amena had passed away. I cried as hard as I could, mourning the loss of someone I had come to see as my sister.

Today, January 15, 2025, Amena, the dream you longed for is beginning to come true. A ceasefire has been declared. I wish you could see the smiles on the people here. The laughter that had been lost is starting to return. Cries of "Allahu Akbar" echo, and gratitude fills the air. Everyone is rejoicing. Hostages are being freed.

Amena… I know you must be smiling where you are, too. I say this to myself with a smile as I look up at the sky.

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"The gunfire, fighter jets, and explosions here are so loud. But honestly, I’m not scared because I know Allah will protect me.

Mom said that being martyred is the dream of all Muslims. That’s why I want to be a martyr, just like Mom and Dad.

Mom, Dad, I’m not afraid of the Zionists—they can never take away my smile.

I believe that one day we will win, and the Zionists will lose. Because Allah is with us, isn’t that right, Mom?”

Amena Shafiyyah, 2024