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10/16/2025

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10/16/2025

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10/16/2025

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10/15/2025

Dear Aakash: Life is for a hundred days only..!! Author: Shri. Rajeev Thatte.
Night 100 — the Eternal Night
The bungalow stood bathed in silver moonlight, quiet, timeless, as if the world itself had paused to honour the night. Aakash walked slowly through the halls he had filled with a hundred memories — the laughter, the whispered secrets, the shared warmth of one hundred extraordinary women who had touched his life. Each room seemed to hum softly, as though the walls remembered every smile, every tear, every heartbeat he had shared.
Tonight, he was alone. Or perhaps not entirely — for in the gentle rustle of curtains, in the flicker of lanterns, he could feel the echoes of every presence, every hand held, every gaze met across the hundred nights. It was as if the universe itself had conspired to make him feel the fullness of life in one final, luminous breath.
He stepped onto the terrace. The garden was a symphony of night sounds: crickets chirping softly, the distant rustle of leaves, a gentle wind carrying the faint scent of jasmine and rain. The moon hung low, luminous and eternal, reflecting a silver path on the water of the koi pond. For a moment, Aakash breathed — deep, long, absorbing every scent, every sound, every memory as though he could store it in his very bones.
Then he felt her presence. Not one woman, not any single moment, but the essence of all the nights, distilled into a warmth that embraced him like a living memory. He closed his eyes, recalling the lanterns, the laughter, the music, the poems, the rain, the moonlight, the fireflies, the tea, the sketches, the letters, the smiles, the love. One hundred nights, one hundred fleeting moments of infinity, all flowing together into this perfect, eternal now.
He whispered to the night, “Thank you… for everything.”
And the night replied — not in words, but in a symphony of memory and feeling. He felt the touch of hands he had held, heard the laughter that had lifted him, felt the warmth of hearts that had trusted him. Every lesson, every joy, every sorrow, every flutter of love coursed through him at once, and he understood profoundly: life is not in its length, but in its depth, in the moments we truly feel and connect.
Aakash lay down on the terrace under the stars, letting the cool night air brush his skin. He gazed at the infinite sky, where the constellations seemed to shimmer with the faces of those who had walked beside him, guiding him through laughter, intimacy, and love. A tear slipped down his cheek — not of sadness, but of pure, boundless fulfilment. He had lived, loved, laughed, and been cherished beyond measure.
In that final night, he felt timeless. The hundred nights had stretched into infinity, every heartbeat a lifetime, every glance a story, every touch a testament to the beauty of existence. And as the first light of dawn whispered at the horizon, he smiled softly, letting his eyes close for the last time.
Aakash did not fear the end. He had seen the world in one hundred nights, and it had left him full. Full of love, full of joy, full of life — and in that, he had discovered a truth that would endure beyond time: happiness is not given; it is felt, shared, and remembered. And that is eternal.
The bungalow remained, bathed in moonlight, holding the echoes of a life lived in a hundred perfect nights, whispering gently to anyone who might walk there one day: love fully, laugh deeply, and cherish everything… for every moment is infinite if you live it truly.

10/15/2025

“Gaza still sings..!!’’ A story of the Palestine and Israel war, which never ended.!! Author: Shri. Rajeev Thatte
Prologue – The Conference
Washington, D.C., February 2024
I had always believed that journalism was not about choosing sides but about choosing truth.
But in Washington that winter, truth itself had become a negotiable term.
The World Media Responsibility Conference was held in a ballroom so large that even the chandeliers seemed to eavesdrop. Journalists, analysts, diplomats — everyone spoke of “ethics” and “balanced narratives,” but each phrase felt like a line rehearsed for the cameras.
I sat in the back row, half-listening, scribbling on my notepad:
Balance is not neutrality when the ground itself tilts under the weight of the dead.
That’s when I first saw her — Layla Al-Masri, the Palestinian journalist who would change the course of my life.
She wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, but she was the calmest amid chaos. The panel was discussing “Conflict Reporting in the Age of Disinformation.” A veteran European correspondent had just declared, “In war, both sides lie. The journalist’s job is to stay above emotion.”
Layla’s hand went up.
Her accent was soft, but her words landed like stones in water.
“When your city is bombed, emotion is not a weakness — it’s the last proof that you are human. Journalists don’t ‘stay above’ pain; we walk through it, carrying our cameras like crosses.”
A silence followed — not of disagreement, but of discomfort.
From my seat, I saw the tremor in her fingers as she adjusted her microphone, the faint scar on her wrist, and the steadiness in her eyes that only people who have buried friends possess.
After the panel, we met near the coffee counter.
She noticed my press badge. “India,” she said, smiling faintly. “You come from a land of poets and contradictions. You understand divided hearts.”
I replied, “We understand conflict too well, Ms. Al-Masri. And how governments hide behind headlines.”
She laughed softly. “Then perhaps you should see ours.”
Over the next two days, we found ourselves in long, restless conversations — about journalism, about humanity, about the thin line between reporting and witnessing.
She told me about Gaza — how she filed stories under candlelight, how her colleague was killed while broadcasting live, how sometimes she wondered if the world even read what they wrote.
When I told her I had covered the Kargil conflict years ago, she said,
“You’ve seen borders drawn by men. Come see the ones carved into souls.”
It wasn’t a challenge; it was an invitation.
On the final night of the conference, the city was wrapped in sleet and soft blue light. We stood outside the hotel, watching the snow fall like tired confetti after too many speeches. She handed me a small business card — edges smudged, her handwriting in Arabic and English.
Layla Al-Masri — Gaza City, Freelance Correspondent.
“Come to Palestine, Rajeev,” she said. “Report to the world what you see — not what you are told. People will listen to an outsider when they no longer hear us.”
I looked at her — her breath visible in the cold, her eyes reflecting the streetlights — and felt the stirrings of something more than professional curiosity.
It was a journalist’s instinct — and a man’s conscience — aligning for once.
That night, I sat by my hotel window overlooking the frozen Potomac and wrote in my notebook:
Some invitations carry no return ticket. This feels like one.

Chapter 1 – Departure
New Delhi, March 2024
The first sound that greeted me when I landed back in Delhi was the blare of car horns — the city’s own kind of siren.
The sky was thick with dust and ambition, and the world outside Indira Gandhi International Airport looked as impatient as ever. After weeks in the antiseptic calm of Washington, Delhi’s chaos felt almost like home.
I told myself that I would rest, file my report on the conference, and move on.
But Layla’s words followed me everywhere — in the static of late-night news debates, in the half-sincere editorials about “the situation in the Middle East.”
Come and see with your own eyes.
In the newsroom, my colleagues at The Global Mirror greeted me with polite curiosity. “How was Washington, sir?” someone asked.
“Loud,” I said. “Mostly people talking about peace while selling defence ads on the next page.”
They laughed, but I didn’t.
The Dilemma
For years, I had been the kind of journalist who believed that neutrality was strength — that the camera lens should not tremble, even if the hand behind it did. But I had seen too many conflicts fade into archives. Sri Lanka. Syria. Kashmir. Each one had its own truths buried under diplomatic language.
Now, the war in Gaza filled every television screen — numbers without faces, statements without feeling. The Indian government called it a “regional security issue.” Western networks spoke of “retaliatory measures.” The truth was lost somewhere between press briefings and the dust of demolished homes.
Late one evening, I met my editor, Meera Sethi, a sharp-eyed woman who had once taught me the difference between courage and recklessness.
She listened quietly as I told her about Layla’s invitation.
“Rajeev,” she said finally, leaning back in her chair, “you’ve been in war zones before. You know this one is different. Israel’s borders are like glass — transparent until you touch them, and then they cut.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I have to go.”
She exhaled. “Do you plan to go as a reporter or a reformer?”
“As a witness,” I replied.
Her silence was long, the kind editors use to measure your resolve. Finally, she nodded. “File daily. No heroics. We’ll publish what you send, unedited. But understand — you’re walking into a political minefield. India’s diplomatic ties with Israel are delicate, and your words could echo farther than you intend.”
I smiled faintly. “Truth usually does.”

Between Two Worlds
At home, my suitcase lay open beside the bed — half clothes, half notebooks. I scrolled through old messages from my son in London, who hadn’t yet replied to my last one. We had grown apart, perhaps because I had chosen stories over family too often.
When I told my sister about my plan, she gasped. “Rajeev, have you lost your mind? You’re going into a war zone! For what — sympathy clicks?”
“No,” I said quietly. “For understanding.”
The next morning, as I waited for my visa clearance, I read reports from both sides — Israeli government statements, Palestinian aid appeals, U.N. condemnations. Each spoke a different language of suffering.
I realized that to tell the truth, I would have to learn to listen in many tongues — of diplomacy, of desperation, and of dignity.
A week later, I received an encrypted message from Layla.
We have arranged permits through Cairo. You’ll cross at Rafah. Bring only what you need. And bring your courage.
That night, I stood on my balcony, the warm Delhi air carrying the smell of rain and dust. Below, the city buzzed with traffic, weddings, protests — the endless business of life. I thought of Gaza — a place where power cuts were longer than days, where mothers cooked with candlelight.
There, life wasn’t loud. It was fragile.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer — not for safety, but for clarity.

Diplomatic Shadows
Two days before departure, I attended a quiet dinner at the residence of a Middle East policy analyst, Ambassador Krishnan, whom I had known for years.
He poured me tea and said, “Rajeev, you know, this isn’t just another war. It’s the oldest wound of modern diplomacy. Be careful. Every word you write will be read by men who trade peace like currency.”
“I’m not interested in trading it,” I said. “I just want to understand it.”
He smiled wryly. “That’s what they all say — until they realize truth doesn’t have a flag.”
As I left his residence, the streets of Chanakyapuri glowed under pale orange lamps — embassies sleeping behind iron gates. The air was thick with quiet deals and polite lies. I wondered how many truths had been buried under those manicured lawns.

The Journey Begins
On the morning of my flight, I carried only a black duffel bag, a camera, three notebooks, and an old fountain pen I’d bought in Srinagar years ago.
At the check-in counter, the airline clerk glanced at my ticket — New Delhi → Cairo — and said with a half-smile, “Business or pleasure, sir?”
“Neither,” I said. “Purpose.”
The flight took off through a grey sky. As the city shrank beneath the clouds, I thought of Layla waiting on the other side of the desert, of children drawing flags on the walls of shelters, of headlines that would never carry their names.
I opened my notebook and wrote:
Every war begins with a border. Perhaps peace begins with crossing one.
Below me, the Arabian Sea shimmered — vast, indifferent, and eternal.
I felt a quiet certainty settle in my chest. Whatever awaited me in Gaza, it was no longer a story for someone else to tell.

Chapter 2 – Rafah Crossing
Cairo, Egypt — March 2024
The Nile shimmered like a strip of old bronze beneath the morning sun when my flight touched down in Cairo. The city seemed to move at two speeds at once — ancient and urgent.
Vendors shouted in Arabic, tourists drifted toward pyramids, and on every television screen, the same news ticker scrolled: ISRAEL–GAZA CEASEFIRE TALKS STALLED.
I checked into a modest hotel near Garden City, a short walk from the Indian embassy. That evening, I met the man Layla had arranged — Khaled Said, a wiry Palestinian fixer with the perpetual alertness of someone who had seen too many borders.
He shook my hand firmly.
“Welcome, Mr. Rajeev. Here, everything happens slowly — until it happens too fast.”

Cairo’s Quiet Diplomacy
The next two days blurred into a series of permissions, signatures, and nervous phone calls. At the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, an Egyptian officer examined my documents like a man deciphering a riddle.
“You are Indian journalist?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You will enter Gaza through Rafah?”
I nodded.
He glanced up. “This is not a tourist destination, my friend. Do you understand the risk?”
“I’ve covered wars before.”
He smiled faintly. “Then you already know that experience never protects you, only humbles you.”
When I left the building, Khaled was waiting by a dented Toyota. He handed me a small folder. Inside was a temporary press permit with my name, the Egyptian seal, and a phrase in Arabic I could barely read.
“It says you are authorized to witness,” he said. “That’s all a journalist really needs, yes?”

The Road to Sinai
We left Cairo before dawn, heading east toward the Sinai. The desert unfolded like a vast unfinished sentence — sand, stone, silence. Occasional military checkpoints appeared out of nowhere: soldiers with polite suspicion, rifles slung low.
Khaled drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding his phone, alternating between Arabic and broken English.
“Egypt tries to keep Gaza closed, but also tries to help. Politics here —” he waved at the horizon — “like sandstorm. No one controls direction.”
We stopped at a roadside tea stall. The air smelled of cardamom and diesel. An old radio played a haunting tune — part prayer, part lament.
“Do you believe the ceasefire talks will work?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Ceasefire is not peace, my friend. It is just an intermission between funerals.”
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Only the wind answered.

Checkpoint Diplomacy
By afternoon, we reached El Arish, the last Egyptian town before Rafah. Concrete buildings bore scars of old insurgencies. Billboards announced development projects that no one seemed to believe in.
At the local coordination office, a young lieutenant took our passports. He called someone, spoke rapidly, and returned with a thin smile.
“Your entry will be tomorrow. The gate closes early today. You will stay in Rafah Camp Hotel. Do not wander.”
His tone was courteous, his eyes unblinking.
It was the same bureaucratic kindness I had heard in Delhi, London, Kabul — the diplomacy of control.
That night, I lay on a thin mattress, listening to the muffled sounds of trucks and distant aircraft. Somewhere beyond the fence lay the narrow strip of land the world argued about — Gaza.
The air itself felt tense, like breath held too long.

Crossing the Gate
At dawn, the convoy assembled — a few journalists, aid workers, and trucks laden with medical supplies. The Rafah Crossing was a corridor of fences, barbed wire, and waiting souls. Families clutched papers, children dozed on suitcases, old men stared at the horizon as if it might open.
I found Layla near the gate, wearing a beige scarf, her face half hidden by sunglasses.
“Rajeev,” she greeted me softly. “Welcome to the waiting room of the world.”
She guided me through the line. Egyptian officials stamped documents with weary precision; UN staff murmured instructions. The wind carried a fine mist of dust and diesel.
When the final gate opened, a soldier gestured us forward. Beyond the iron barrier, the land changed — the air heavier, quieter, charged.
We stepped through.

The Silence Before Chaos
On the Gaza side, the road was lined with broken billboards and burnt vehicles. A donkey cart moved past a destroyed petrol station. Children waved half-curious, half-suspicious. Somewhere far away, a low boom echoed — not close enough to fear, but too near to forget.
Layla turned to me.
“This is Gaza. You’ll soon learn — silence here is never peaceful. It’s just the pause between two storms.”
For the first time, I felt the weight of what I had come to witness. All my years in journalism, all my theories about neutrality — none of them prepared me for the human geometry of loss that began to unfold before me.
I took out my notebook and wrote the date: March 15, 2024 — Entry into Gaza.
Then beneath it:
In Delhi, silence means rest. Here, it means the world is holding its breath.
The gate clanged shut behind us.

Chapter 3 – First Night in Gaza
Gaza City — March 15, 2024, 6:40 p.m.
The sun was setting behind a haze of smoke and dust when we entered Gaza City. The roads were narrow, the buildings weary — pockmarked by shrapnel, patched with hope. Every wall told two stories: one of survival, one of exhaustion.
Layla’s SUV rolled past a bakery, its queue stretching along the street. Children clutched flatbread like treasure; the baker’s hands moved in rhythm, unbothered by the faint drone humming above.
“They’ve learned to live with it,” Layla said, eyes fixed ahead. “That sound? It’s like the heartbeat of the sky. Never stops.”
I looked up. The sky was nearly black, but faint lights blinked — drones, circling like patient predators.
The air smelled of sea salt, gunpowder, and freshly baked bread. It was both intimate and unreal.

The Apartment
Layla housed me in a journalist apartment near Al-Rimal district, a few streets from the UN office. The electricity flickered every few minutes. A generator coughed outside like an old smoker.
Inside, the room was simple — a mattress, a desk, a small balcony with a view of the Mediterranean that shimmered even through the blackout haze.
Layla handed me a small candle.
“Power goes in ten minutes. You’ll get used to it. We all did.”
“Do you ever stop fearing it?” I asked.
She hesitated. “No. You just get used to functioning inside fear. That’s the difference.”
When the lights went out, the city transformed — a constellation of small fires, mobile phone screens, and the occasional flare in the distance. The soundscape was strange: dogs barking, distant prayers, the slow thump of generators, and the electric hum of a drone somewhere high above.
For the first time, I felt utterly alone, and yet surrounded by thousands of people trying to live their lives in defiance of despair.

Dinner and Diplomacy
Layla invited me to a nearby safe house where a few local journalists and aid workers gathered for dinner — lentil soup, bread, and cautious laughter.
“This is what we call diplomacy,” one of them, a photographer named Youssef, joked. “Sharing food before sharing risk.”
I asked how long they had lived like this.
Youssef shrugged. “Depends what you mean by this. The airstrikes come and go, the politicians change their statements, but we—” he tapped his camera, “we stay.”
Layla added softly, “Here, journalism is not about telling stories. It’s about reminding the world that we still exist.”
There was a silence after that. Even the generator seemed to pause. Outside, a flare illuminated the horizon — bright, brief, indifferent.

The Human Geometry of Night
Later, I walked alone toward the seafront. The streets were dim, but people still moved — a man selling tea from a gas stove, a boy kicking a punctured football, a woman dragging a water canister with silent determination.
The sea roared like a restless god. On the dark horizon, Israeli ships glimmered — steady dots of light, reminders of distance and control.
I took out my recorder and spoke quietly:
“March 15, Gaza City.
The city breathes between heartbeats of fear.
Every sound carries weight — a generator, a drone, a whisper.
Yet, the people live. They buy bread. They laugh.
Perhaps that’s the real resistance — the refusal to disappear.”
When I looked back at the city, I noticed something startling — despite everything, it looked beautiful. The candle lights in windows, the distant murmur of the call to prayer, the quiet resilience that glowed where governments had failed.

The Dispatch
At midnight, the power briefly returned. I sat at the desk, the blue laptop light washing over my face, and began my first dispatch to The Global Times, London:
“From the Rafah gate to the Gaza shore, the world narrows into a corridor of endurance.
Here, silence is not absence of sound but the vocabulary of survival.
Children grow up recognizing the language of drones.
Mothers cook by candlelight and call it routine.
This is Gaza — fragile, fierce, and endlessly misrepresented.”
I hesitated, then added one more line:
“In a city where the power dies each night, what endures is not electricity — but humanity.”
I hit send.
Outside, thunder rolled — or maybe something else.
Layla’s voice came through the corridor: “Rajeev, stay inside. There’s movement near Shuja’iyya.”
I turned off the light. The laptop’s glow faded.
The drone’s hum deepened.
And thus began my first night in Gaza — a world both alive and dying, at once intimate and infinite.

Chapter 4 – The Children of the Rubble
Gaza City — March 16, 2024, 8:10 a.m.
The morning began with sirens.
Not the blaring ones of a city preparing for attack — these were shorter, sharper, the kind that meant it had already happened.
Layla’s phone vibrated on the table as we were having tea.
She glanced at the message and froze.
“Strike in the north — Jabalia refugee camp,” she said. “Residential block. Children reported missing.”
Before I could speak, she was already grabbing her camera bag. “Come if you’re ready to see what headlines never show.”

The Drive North
We drove through broken streets and clouds of dust. The air was filled with the smell of concrete and fire — a scent that clings to you long after it fades.
Ambulances screamed past us. Men on motorbikes carried people on wooden planks. Women ran barefoot, clutching bags that seemed to contain their entire lives.
I had covered wars before — Kargil, Sri Lanka, parts of Afghanistan. But Gaza was different.
Here, there were no frontlines — only neighbourhoods that became battlefields without warning.
When we reached Jabalia, the world looked as though it had been folded into itself. A three-story building had collapsed like paper. Dust hung thick as fog. Dozens of people were digging with their hands.

The Rescue
A boy’s cry pierced the air — faint but unmistakable.
Layla rushed toward the sound. I followed, camera shaking in my grip.
A rescuer shouted, “There! Under the slab!”
Men and boys gathered, pulling debris, bricks, iron rods — anything.
After fifteen minutes that felt like an eternity, they pulled out a child — maybe six years old, coated in white dust, blood trickling down his forehead.
He was alive.
The crowd erupted in a strange mix of sobs and cheers.
A woman fell to her knees, her face buried in her hands. Someone shouted “Allahu Akbar,” not in victory but in disbelief.
Layla knelt beside the boy, her camera still on but her eyes glistening.
“This,” she whispered to me, “is what they call a surgical strike.”
I couldn’t reply. My throat felt dry, my heart heavy.
I took photos — but every click felt like betrayal.

The Moral Lens
Back at the temporary medical tent, the rescued boy lay unconscious, an IV in his arm. His sister, barely ten, sat beside him holding a broken doll.
I turned my recorder on, intending to narrate a report. But no words came.
How do you explain to the world that statistics have faces?
Layla noticed my silence. “You’ll find your words,” she said. “But remember — neutrality is not the same as truth.”
I looked at her. “As journalists, we’re told to stay objective.”
She smiled bitterly. “Objectivity is a privilege of those who aren’t under fire.”
Her words hit me harder than any explosion could.
In that moment, I realized that journalism, stripped of empathy, becomes another form of blindness.

The Interview
Later that afternoon, I met a local teacher named Samer, who had lost three of his students in the blast. He stood amid the ruins of his classroom, chalk dust mixing with ash.
“I used to teach geography,” he said softly. “Now, I teach them how to hide when the sound comes from the sky.”
He looked at me with eyes too tired to cry.
“Tell your world this: our children don’t dream of flags. They dream of quiet.”

The Dispatch
That night, back at the apartment, I began to write my second dispatch. The power flickered, as usual, but I wrote anyway — by candlelight, by conscience.
“Today in Jabalia, I saw what remains when language collapses.
A boy pulled from rubble, a girl holding a doll, a teacher without a school.
Politicians debate peace; people here debate survival.
In Gaza, every child learns the geography of fear before they learn to spell their own names.”
I paused, staring at the line. It felt like too much — or maybe not enough.
The world doesn’t listen to long stories anymore; it scrolls, forgets, moves on.
Still, I pressed send.

Layla’s Reflection
Layla sat beside the window, looking at the faint outline of the sea.
“They’ll call it propaganda,” she said quietly. “Every story we tell — someone will dismiss it as politics.”
I replied, “Then maybe truth is the most political act left to us.”
She smiled faintly. “Now you sound like a Palestinian.”
Outside, another explosion echoed — distant, but close enough to shake the glass.
Neither of us moved. We simply sat there, listening, recording, remembering.

That night, I dreamed of the boy — dust-covered, eyes half open — asking me something I couldn’t answer:
“Will you tell them?”
I woke up sweating, heart pounding.
Yes, I thought. I will.

Chapter 5 – Echoes of Faith
Gaza City — March 19, 2024
The city woke that morning to two kinds of prayers — one rising from a half-collapsed mosque, the other whispered beneath the cracked roof of a small church.
Both houses of worship stood less than two kilometers apart, both scarred by the same blast two days earlier.
Faith here was not about religion anymore; it was about endurance.

The Mosque of the Broken Minaret
The Al-Khaleel Mosque once stood as a landmark — a tall white minaret visible from the shore. Now, half of it lay in rubble. The call to prayer echoed faintly through a portable loudspeaker tied to a pole.
Inside, I found Imam Yasin, a man in his late fifties with eyes like calm water. His robe was dusted with cement, yet he greeted me with a smile that belonged to another world.
“You came from India,” he said softly. “We have always admired your poets. You understand pain that turns into verse.”
I nodded. “And yet, sir, what verse could carry this?”
He motioned to the shattered walls.
“These are not the first to fall. They rebuild them, we pray again, they fall again — and still, faith remains. Not faith in walls, but in the act of standing up again.”
I asked him whether he felt anger.
He looked at me long before answering.
“Anger is easy. But what will my anger feed? The dead? The hungry? I choose endurance. It is harder, but it feeds life.”
Children swept the courtyard around us, clearing dust from prayer mats. A young boy climbed onto what remained of the minaret base, calling the adhan — his voice trembling, yet steady.
In that cracked echo, I heard something extraordinary — a defiance more powerful than vengeance.

The Church of Saint Porphyrius
That afternoon, Layla took me to Saint Porphyrius Church, one of the oldest in Gaza — now its stained glass shattered, its marble floor cratered by debris.
Father Elias Haddad, the parish priest, was overseeing repairs with quiet dignity. Muslim neighbours were helping carry wooden beams, passing them hand to hand in silence.
“We stopped counting differences long ago,” Father Elias said. “Here, we count only who’s still alive.”
He showed me the small crypt below the church, where several families now sheltered after their homes were destroyed. Candles flickered between sleeping children and food baskets from aid groups.
One woman whispered a verse from the Quran beside a statue of Mary. No one questioned it.
“Faith,” Father Elias said, “is not about where you kneel. It’s about not letting hate replace prayer.”
I asked him what he would tell the world leaders debating “ceasefire resolutions” in New York and Geneva.
He smiled, weary but sincere.
“Tell them that we don’t need their speeches. We need silence — the kind that lets children sleep through the night.”

Layla’s Quiet Reflection
As we walked back, Layla was unusually silent.
Finally, she said, “My father was Muslim, my mother Christian. When they bombed our street, both the mosque and the church nearby were destroyed. I buried them together — under one tree.”
I looked at her, speechless.
She continued, “When you report this, don’t write about religion. Write about humans who refuse to stop believing in goodness, even when the world burns around them.”
Her words lingered longer than the smoke above the skyline.

Evening by the Sea
That evening, I stood on the Gaza seafront again. The horizon shimmered with light — drones, flares, distant ships. The muezzin’s call mingled with church bells, both faint, both fragile, both alive.
I took out my notebook and wrote:
“March 19, Gaza City.
I visited a mosque without a minaret and a church without a roof.
Both stood stronger than the armies that broke them.
Here, faith is not about God taking sides —
it’s about people refusing to surrender their humanity.”
I paused and looked at the sea, its waves breaking softly against the shore.
In those waves, I heard what no diplomat could ever translate — the sound of a people still whispering to heaven, not for revenge, but for mercy.

The Broadcast
That night, Layla and I recorded our first joint video report for global media.
She began in Arabic; I followed in English:
“We stand between a mosque and a church — both damaged, both alive.
In Gaza, faith does not divide; it defies despair.”
The video went viral within hours.
Messages poured in — journalists, diplomats, even ordinary people across continents writing: ‘We didn’t know it was like this.’
For once, it felt as if the world was listening — not to politics, but to humanity.

When the power went out again, we sat by the candlelight. Layla whispered, “Every time a bell rings or a muezzin calls, it means we are still here.”
Outside, distant thunder rolled again — or perhaps artillery.
But above it, faintly, beautifully, came the sound of both a bell and a prayer — rising together, in defiance of division.
Chapter 6 – The Broken Ceasefire
Gaza City — March 26, 2024
For nearly a week, Gaza had lived under an uneasy quiet — a pause, not peace.
The world called it a humanitarian ceasefire; the people here called it a mirage.
In Cairo, negotiators from Israel, Hamas, Egypt, Qatar, and the United States sat around tables draped with flags.
On the news, anchors debated “promising developments.”
But in Gaza, people whispered: “We’ve heard that before.”

The World Notices
My dispatches and video reports — especially the one from the mosque and church — had spread far beyond what I imagined.
BBC, Al Jazeera, NDTV, and Reuters cited them.
For the first time, my inbox overflowed not with press releases, but with questions.
One email stood out — from the Israeli Embassy in New Delhi:
“Mr. Rajeev, your recent reports are being discussed at multiple diplomatic levels. We urge balanced coverage. The situation is sensitive.”
Balanced.
I stared at the word, the same way one stares at a blade hidden in velvet.
Layla read over my shoulder and smiled dryly.
“Congratulations. You’ve made it onto someone’s radar.”
“That doesn’t sound like good news.”
“It isn’t,” she said. “But it means you’re telling the truth.”

The Calm Before the Fire
That afternoon, the streets buzzed with rumours of an impending breakthrough.
Egyptian channels broadcasted live from Cairo — negotiators smiling for cameras, diplomats shaking hands.
Even children seemed lighter; shops reopened, and music floated again through alleys.
Layla and I went to the seaside café where local journalists gathered.
Over tea and cigarette smoke, they discussed the politics of peace — a language everyone here spoke, but few believed in.
Youssef, the photographer, said, “The ceasefire always breaks when someone smiles too early.”
Layla replied, “Then let’s not smile yet.”
At that exact moment, the distant hum of a drone returned.
Everyone went quiet.

The Blast
It happened just after sunset.
A sound like thunder — deeper, angrier — tore through the coastline.
The café windows shattered inward.
We ducked under the table as a second explosion followed, closer this time.
Screams filled the air. The sea turned red with reflected fire.
Sirens wailed again, louder than ever before.
Layla grabbed my arm. “Come — Al-Shati camp!”
We ran through smoke and chaos — the streets once calm now turned to nightmare.
The target, we learned later, was an alleged militant safe house.
The reality: two apartment blocks filled with civilians.

Caught Between Worlds
At the site, everything was dust, blood, and disbelief.
I filmed as rescuers clawed through debris, calling names into the smoke.
A man handed me a small shoe — a child’s.
“She was five,” he said quietly. “Tell them that. Five.”
Layla was shouting into her camera — voice breaking, words barely audible over sirens:
“So this is your ceasefire? This is your negotiation?”
Her anger was fire, mine was ice.
I kept filming, because to stop would mean admitting defeat to silence.

The Call from Cairo
That night, while the city burned, I received a call from my editor in London.
“Rajeev, your name’s all over international feeds. Israel claims misinformation. The embassy’s press office says you’re inside Gaza without proper clearance. They’re calling you biased.”
“Biased toward humanity, perhaps,” I said coldly.
“Be careful, Rajeev. You’re in the middle of a diplomatic storm. London’s talking about revoking your access.”
When I hung up, Layla was staring at the sea — flames still glowing on the horizon.
“Now you understand,” she said softly. “Here, truth itself is a combat zone.”

The Journalist’s Dilemma
Later, as we sat in darkness, the hum of drones returning above, I wrote my next dispatch — the hardest yet.
“March 26, Gaza City.
Tonight, the ceasefire broke — or perhaps, it never existed.
The world negotiates peace in marble halls; here, children die under roofs made of dust.
I am told to be neutral. But neutrality between the bomb and the buried is not journalism — it is complicity.”
I hesitated before sending it.
If I pressed send, it could cost me my credentials — maybe even my safety.
Layla touched my hand.
“Send it. Truth has fewer friends than power, but stronger ones.”
I pressed send.

Cairo Reacts
Hours later, Egyptian media confirmed:
Ceasefire talks collapsed.
Delegates walked out of the Cairo conference hall, faces grim.
Israel blamed Hamas. Hamas blamed Israel.
The cycle began again — statements, condemnations, silence.
But one report — mine — was now circulating across international outlets.
It wasn’t diplomacy; it was witness.
And witness, I realized, is sometimes the only weapon left to conscience.

The Midnight Raid
At 2:30 a.m., someone knocked on our door — hard, urgent.
Youssef’s voice: “Rajeev! They’re saying your name on Channel 12 — Israeli television. They claim you’re embedded with militants. You need to move.”
Layla was already packing equipment. “We’ll go to the press shelter near the UN compound. Safer there — for now.”
As we slipped into the alley, a drone roared overhead, its red light flashing like an unblinking eye.
Layla whispered, “They don’t bomb journalists… unless they decide we aren’t journalists anymore.”
For the first time since coming to Gaza, I felt the true cost of telling the truth — it wasn’t just danger.
It was the loneliness of knowing that no government, no institution, would protect you once your words became inconvenient.

From the UN shelter, I looked out at the burning skyline and recorded a short voice note for my next dispatch:
“The ceasefire is broken. But so is the illusion that anyone truly wants peace more than control.
I came to report reality — now I am living it.
And every explosion outside feels like punctuation to a story the world refuses to finish.”

Chapter 7 – The Siege Within
Gaza City — April 2, 2024
The siege began not with bombs, but with silence.
No fuel, no food trucks, no internet, no foreign media. Gaza had been sealed — not just from the world, but from its own reflection.
The border crossings were closed. Electricity cut to two hours a day. Water pumps dry. Even the air seemed rationed.
Layla looked out at the motionless streets and whispered,
“This is not a war anymore. This is strangulation.”

The Evacuation
International agencies began to pull out their teams.
Convoys of white SUVs rolled toward Rafah, carrying reporters, doctors, and diplomats under Egyptian protection.
My editor in London called again, voice taut with worry:
“Rajeev, you have to leave. It’s no longer a story — it’s a trap. Israel’s restricting entry, and you’re on their watchlist.”
“So are millions of others,” I replied quietly.
“They’re civilians, Rajeev. You’re a journalist. Don’t be a martyr.”
When I told Layla, she simply said,
“They can leave. We can’t. And if you go, make sure your conscience fits in your luggage.”
I said nothing. But inside, I knew: leaving would mean survival. Staying would mean meaning.

The Underground Room
We moved into a basement beneath an abandoned hospital near Al-Wehda Street. It smelled of damp earth and iodine.
The room was small — one lamp, a radio, a stack of bottled water, and two laptops connected through a fragile satellite uplink Youssef had rigged.
Each night, the sky above roared with jet engines and drones.
Each morning, we checked who was still alive.
The siege had turned everyone into accountants of survival — counting bread, fuel, hours of sleep.

The Breaking Point
On the fourth day, food ran low.
Layla offered me her share of rice.
“You’re the guest,” she said.
“Then let me behave like one,” I replied, pushing it back.
Her laughter — faint but real — echoed softly in the dark.
“You Indians have poetry even in hunger.”
“And you Palestinians,” I said, “have courage even in despair.”
The next moment, an explosion shook the ground. The lamp flickered. Dust rained from the ceiling.
We froze — listening, breathing.
Then, silence again.
“That one was close,” she murmured.
“How do you know?”
“When the walls don’t shake, it means it hit someone else.”

The World Grows Distant
Days blurred together — nights of cold fear, mornings of exhaustion.
Internet finally went down.
We couldn’t send dispatches anymore. The world was now deaf to Gaza’s heartbeat.
I kept writing in my notebook — words no one might ever read.
“April 6, Gaza City.
The siege is no longer around us. It’s inside us — the siege within.
We are hungry, but not only for food. For witness. For acknowledgement. For something human in this machinery of control.”
Layla read over my shoulder and whispered,
“You write like a prayer.”
“And you live like one.”

Radio Voices
The only connection left was the radio. We listened to static-laden broadcasts from Cairo, London, Tel Aviv.
Each side spoke of “progress” and “restraint.”
The irony was unbearable.
One night, a voice from BBC Arabic reported:
“Negotiations in Egypt resume next week. Unconfirmed reports suggest humanitarian access may be restored.”
Layla looked at me. “We’ve heard that before.”
I nodded. “But maybe this time, someone read our stories.”
She smiled faintly. “Or maybe they just ran out of bombs.”

The Dilemma
On the tenth day, an evacuation message arrived through the UN field team:
“Foreign journalists advised to move to Rafah border immediately. Limited window for crossing into Egypt.”
I stared at it for a long time.
Layla watched me. “You should go,” she said softly. “You can tell the world what’s left of us.”
“I can’t leave you here.”
“I’ve lived here all my life, Rajeev. I can’t leave even if I want to. But you — you can carry our voice beyond these walls.”
Her eyes shone in the lamplight — not pleading, but resolute.
“Go, before the world forgets again.”

The Heart’s War
That night, I sat awake, listening to the city breathe in fragments — explosions far away, cries closer, the hum of the sea beyond.
I wrote one last note in my Gaza journal:
“If I survive, it will not be luck. It will be her courage borrowed through me.
In every headline, there should be a name.
In every statistic, a face.
I will not leave Gaza behind; I will carry it like a mirror.”
Before dawn, I packed my bag — my notebook, my camera, and the dust of a city that refused to die.

Departure Without Leaving
At the Rafah gate, UN staff ushered me toward the crossing.
Layla walked beside me, her scarf wrapped tight against the desert wind.
“When you reach Cairo,” she said, “don’t write what you saw. Write what you felt. Facts fade. Feelings don’t.”
“Will we meet again?” I asked.
“In stories,” she said, and smiled — that quiet, indestructible smile that only people who have lost everything can still wear.
The guards called my name.
I looked back — but Layla was already walking away, back toward Gaza, toward the endless smoke.
And for the first time, I realized:
I might be leaving Gaza, but Gaza would never leave me.

“April 10, Rafah Border.
I cross today not as a journalist, but as a witness.
The siege continues — on the ground, in hearts, and in the silence of those who could have spoken.
The world will move on. But I won’t.
Because truth, once seen, cannot be unremembered.”

Chapter 8 – The Conference in Cairo
Cairo – April 12, 2024
The Nile glittered under the sharp Egyptian sun, but to me, the world seemed dulled — as if light itself carried dust from Gaza.
I stepped out of the UN van, my press badge dangling from my neck, my eyes scanning the marble steps of the Egyptian Foreign Ministry where the “Regional Peace and Security Summit” was about to begin.
Flags fluttered in cautious harmony — Israel’s blue Star of David, Palestine’s red-green banner, Egypt’s eagle, and the faintly visible UN insignia above them all.
To any observer, it looked like a pageant of diplomacy.
But to me, it looked like theatre built over graves.

Arrival and Unease
Inside, corridors buzzed with journalists, diplomats, and intelligence agents disguised as aides.
I overheard fragments of conversation — “humanitarian corridors”, “conditional ceasefire”, “mutual restraint.”
Every phrase was polished, every word defanged.
As I collected my press pass, a UN official whispered,
“Mr. Rajeev, your Gaza reports have made waves — both good and bad. Be careful what you ask today.”
“I didn’t come to ask,” I said quietly. “I came to remember.”

The Faces Across the Table
In the grand conference hall, the delegates took their places.
At one end — General Avi Ben-David, Israel’s national security adviser, eyes cold behind rimless glasses.
At the other — Dr. Hanan Khalil, representing the Palestinian Authority, her face lined by both grief and endurance.
Between them sat Egypt’s Foreign Minister, trying to balance history on his shoulders.
As I observed from the media gallery, I noticed the irony: the people who lived the war were absent. Only those who managed it were here.
Layla’s words echoed in his mind:
“Don’t write what you saw. Write what you felt.”

Diplomatic Theatre
The first hours were mechanical.
Statements of regret.
Condemnations of “terrorism” and “disproportionate response.”
Pledges for “restraint.”
All choreographed for cameras.
When Israel’s delegate spoke, his tone was measured:
“We have the right to defend ourselves. No country can tolerate rockets aimed at its civilians.”
Then came Dr. Hanan’s reply:
“And no people can live forever in blockade and occupation. Defence cannot justify suffocation.”
The hall erupted in murmurs. Cameras flashed.
I scribbled notes, but my hands trembled slightly.
I wasn’t just covering an event — I was watching history trying to clean its conscience.

The Question
Later, during the open press session, I was given the microphone.
The moderator introduced me:
“From India — Mr. Rajeev, independent journalist whose recent coverage from Gaza has drawn global attention.”
All eyes turned toward me.
I stood — weary from sleepless nights, carrying the scent of Gaza’s dust on my jacket.
“My question,” I began slowly, “is not for any one nation, but for all of us who claim to be civilized.
I have seen children dig through rubble for their parents.
I have seen hospitals bombed because someone thought there might be a soldier inside.
I have seen faith twisted, hope starved, and humanity traded for strategy.
And yet, in Gaza, I also saw people still believing in peace — people who have nothing, still choosing not to hate.”
The hall fell silent.
I looked first at the Israeli side.
“You say you defend your citizens. But how do you defend your soul when defence becomes destruction?”
Then at the Palestinian delegation.
“And you — how long will resistance be measured only in blood and loss?”
Finally, he turned toward the UN panel.
“And to the world — how long will neutrality be your excuse for inaction?”
There was no applause. Only the hum of translators whispering his words across headsets.
He felt the weight of every stare — admiration, hostility, pity.

Backroom Diplomacy
After the session, a low-ranking Israeli diplomat approached me in the corridor.
“Mr. Rajeev,” he said curtly, “your speech was moving — but dangerous. You simplify a war you cannot understand.”
I met his gaze.
“And you complicate a suffering you’ve never lived.”
The diplomat turned and walked away.
Moments later, Dr. Hanan found him outside the hall.
“You spoke the truth, Mr. Rajeev. Few here dare to.”
“Truth,” I said, “has no passport. It belongs to whoever dares to tell it.”
She smiled faintly.
“You remind me of the journalists we used to have — before fear became the editor.”

A Fragile Beginning
By evening, whispers of an agreement circulated — a “humanitarian truce,” temporary corridors for aid and medical support.
Cairo’s air filled with cautious hope.
I sat by the Nile that night, looking at the lights shimmering on the water — each reflection trembling like an uncertain future.
I recorded his final dispatch from Cairo:
“Peace does not begin in conferences. It begins when someone chooses to listen, not just respond.
I saw Gaza through its wounds, and Israel through its fear.
Between them stands the fragile truth that both are human — and both are haunted.
The war may pause. But unless empathy replaces rhetoric, the silence will only reload.”
I stopped the recorder, closed my notebook, and watched the river carry the city’s sounds toward the sea — toward Gaza, toward memory.

“April 14, Cairo.
The conference ended with signatures, not solutions.
Yet, somewhere beyond politics, a seed was planted — perhaps in the heart of a child who survived, or in the conscience of someone who finally saw.
History will not remember my name. But I will remember theirs — the children of the rubble, the prayers under fire, and Layla’s last smile beneath a burning sky.”

Chapter 9 – The Letter from Gaza
Cairo Airport – April 17, 2024
The boarding call echoed through the terminal:
“Flight 931 to New Delhi — final boarding.”
I sat still, my passport open on my lap, unread.
The last few days in Cairo had blurred into interviews, reports, and hollow congratulations.
Everyone called the Cairo summit a “breakthrough.”
But to me, it felt like a pause between tragedies.
I was leaving for home — yet his heart remained on the other side of the Rafah crossing, in a basement beneath a broken hospital, where a woman named Layla once shared her last grain of rice.
Just as I rose to leave, a UN courier approached.
“Mr. Rajeev?”
“Yes.”
“This came for you from Rafah. It was handed over by a local contact — said it was urgent.”
The man left as abruptly as he came.
I stared at the envelope — brown, worn, the edges darkened with sand.
The handwriting on it was unmistakable.
Layla.

The Letter
I opened it with trembling hands.
The paper smelled faintly of smoke and salt.
Her words flowed in elegant Arabic, translated roughly in English below — scrawled, imperfect, but alive.

“Rajeev,
If you are reading this, then you have left Gaza, and I am glad. You must never feel guilt for surviving. The living have duties the dead cannot fulfil.
Things have grown worse since you crossed. The siege tightens like a noose — no light, no medicine, no rest. But do not mistake our silence for surrender. We breathe through the cracks.
You once asked me what keeps us from despair. I told you: faith. But it is more than that. It is memory. Every mother here carries the names of her lost children like seeds in her heart. We plant those names in the soil of our grief and wait for peace to grow.
You saw the children of the rubble, Rajeev. They will one day rebuild those homes. And when they do, they will need the world to remember that they were not victims — they were witnesses.
Do not write us as broken people. Write us as stubborn souls who refused to die quietly.
Tell them that Gaza still sings — softly, defiantly, even under the drones.
And if one day the world grows tired of our story, then tell them another: of a journalist from India who came not to judge, but to understand.
Do not return to Gaza, Rajeev. Not yet. But do not forget it either. You now carry a piece of it — not in your notes, but in your heartbeat.
With hope that refuses to end,
— Layla”

The Pause Between Words
The airport around me dissolved into background noise — footsteps, announcements, the hum of air-conditioning.
I read the letter again and again until the ink blurred through my tears.
Layla’s voice echoed between the lines — steady, luminous, unconquered.
She was alive. Or at least, she had been when she wrote it.
I couldn’t know now. Gaza was sealed again.
I folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his notebook — the same one that held his notes from the siege.
For a moment, I realized — the letter wasn’t a farewell. It was an inheritance.

Return Flight
On the plane, the cabin lights dimmed. The world outside the window stretched into endless darkness.
I closed my eyes. In the hum of the engines, I could almost hear Gaza — the distant thunder, the whisper of prayers, the laughter of children playing amid ruins.
I began to write — not as a journalist, but as a human being.
“War is not fought only on the ground. It is fought in the conscience of those who choose to look away.
Layla’s letter is not from Gaza. It is from humanity itself — a reminder that dignity is stronger than fear, that truth is worth more than safety.
I thought I went to cover a conflict. But I found a mirror — showing us all what we become when we stop listening.”
I looked out through the window — the Nile glowing faintly below, Cairo’s lights fading into the horizon.
Somewhere beyond that darkness lay Gaza, unseen but unforgettable.

A Quiet Resolution
When the plane landed in Delhi, morning light spilled through the glass corridors.
Crowds bustled around him, but I walked slowly — the letter clutched in my hand.
I no longer felt like a reporter returning home.
I felt like a messenger carrying someone else’s truth — fragile, luminous, and dangerous.
At immigration, the officer glanced at his passport.
“Purpose of travel?”
I smiled faintly.
“To see. To understand.”
And as he stepped out into the warmth of Indian sunlight, he realized something profound:
I hadn’t come back from a war zone —I had come back from humanity’s reflection.

“April 20, New Delhi.
The letter from Gaza is now my scripture.
I will not report merely facts anymore — I will report memory, emotion, consequence.
Because journalism without compassion is just surveillance.
And the world, without remembrance, is doomed to repeat its own cruelty.”

Chapter 10 – The Return to Conscience
New Delhi — June 2024
The monsoon had just broken over Delhi.
Thunder rolled across the sky like distant artillery — and each sound carried me back to Gaza.
I had become, almost unwillingly, a celebrity.
My book “The Siege Within” was translated into ten languages.
Universities invited him to speak.
Prime-time anchors debated my chapters as if peace were a trending topic.
Everywhere I went — Mumbai, Geneva, Washington, London — audiences rose to applaud me.
They called me “the conscience of South Asia.”
But applause, I learned, was a poor substitute for peace.

The Lecture Circuit
At a conference in Singapore, I stood before a hall of journalists and policy experts.
My voice, calm but heavy, filled the room.
“When I was in Gaza,”