The Silence Beneath the Sirens

Voice Note 01 — October 4, 2025. 7:12 PM

"Hello. My name is Zayd. I am ten years old. I live in Gaza. If you're listening to this… it means my phone still works. So I’m still alive. Alhamdulillah."

There was a time when Zayd believed that the most terrifying sound in the world was thunder. It cracked the sky open, rumbling like a thousand angry footsteps. But now, thunder would be a mercy. Thunder doesn’t flatten buildings or steal fathers from living rooms.

Now, the most terrifying sound in Gaza is the silence after the sirens.

That’s when he knows something is about to vanish.

His mother tells him stories during the day to keep him from asking too many questions. Fairytales, mostly — dragons and flying horses and brave boys who rescue their cities. But at night, when the lights flicker and the news murmurs in the background, she falls quiet. That’s when Zayd records voice notes on an old cracked phone. It’s the only thing left that feels like talking to someone.

He doesn’t know who will listen to them. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. Maybe someone important. He likes to pretend that the President of the United Nations is subscribed to his voice notes.

Voice Note 07 — October 9, 2025. 3:20 AM

"Tonight we made a game out of running to the basement. I called it Mission Falcon. Mama smiled. But when the lights went out, she cried a little. She didn’t think I saw."

Their home used to have three bedrooms. Now it has two walls and one mattress. The windows are gone. They breathe ash like oxygen. Zayd’s older brother, Yusuf, has started drawing pictures in the dust — rockets, birds, and stars with angry eyes.

Sometimes, Zayd looks at his mother’s face when the bombs fall. Not her eyes — her mouth. He watches it move in prayer. He tries to copy the words.

Voice Note 12 — October 15, 2025. 9:01 PM

"I used to dream about being a footballer. But now I think I want to be a journalist. If you tell the truth loud enough, maybe the world listens. Maybe the bombs stop."

Yesterday, Zayd saw a cat carrying a kitten between its teeth. The cat weaved through broken bricks and a twisted metal pipe that used to be a swing set. He followed quietly, clutching his phone like a treasure map. The cat disappeared behind the wreckage of what was once the school library.

The kitten meowed. Zayd knelt down and placed a tiny square of bread on a stone. “Here,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be scared.”

But the kitten wouldn’t come out. Not even cats believe in safety anymore.

That night, there was no electricity again. He used a candle stub to record his voice note, careful not to breathe too loudly — the drone outside had a sensitive ear.

Voice Note 14 — October 18, 2025. 12:14 AM

"If this ends one day, and I’m still here, I will plant a garden where our house used to be. And I will give every flower a name. This one is Baba. This one is Fatima. This one is everyone who didn’t get to say goodbye."

Sometimes Zayd imagines what it’s like to live in a place where the sky doesn’t scream. Where kids are scared of ghosts or clowns, not missiles. Where bedtime stories end with happy ever after, not airstrike alerts.

His cousin once asked, “Why do they hate us?”

Zayd didn’t know the answer. But now he thinks maybe it’s not hate. Maybe it’s just that they stopped looking. Maybe silence is easier than seeing.

Voice Note 16 — October 21, 2025. 5:45 PM

"I hope whoever hears this remembers my name. I hope they say it out loud. Say it like I mattered. Like we all did."

The next day, the house across the street vanished. It didn’t fall. It evaporated — dust where a family used to eat dinner. The explosion came without warning, without sirens, without mercy.

Zayd's voice notes stopped after that.

His phone was found weeks later, beneath a splintered table, wrapped in a child’s scarf. The recordings were downloaded and shared by a journalist. Played on radios. Translated into ten languages. A ten-year-old’s voice echoed around the world.

Some cried. Some changed their minds. Some said nothing at all.

But millions listened.

And in that moment — even if only for a second — the silence lost.