Between the ruins of homes and body remains, between the tears and lamentations of the bereft, between the vestiges of clothes and the debris, the morning dawned upon frantic eyes watchful for a tomorrow. A new day was born; some were destined to see it, others not.

Between all this and that, the morning came.

A morning which, apparently, was the first day the hostilities had stopped and the people awoke and the madness of war was gone. A new morning in Gaza, but one that did not bode well.

Everyone is trying to catch the last drops of hope for the return of the past, which, for years, was not even any better.

I look for you and find you in the arms of a girl searching for her parents among the sand. I see you on Arab satellites too proud to beg. I stumble upon you in a trash can on a scrap of paper with a list of searches from global summits. And they all chant, "We are Gaza!"

How many years have to elapse before Gaza and its war make it to books that will remind our children there once was a Palestinian coastal city called Gaza? The people there did not enjoy peace.

Or, perhaps, an invisible hand will wipe away all this humiliation and delete from the books Gaza's tragedy. When will peace come so that I can finally get to know how the soil is in Gaza?

Translated from the Arabic.