Unheard Screams of Innocence

By Nasiruddin Hamid

In Gaza, between the smoke and the deadly hum of guns and bombs, stood the skeletal remains of a hospital. Its windows shattered, its roof crumbled, it looked more like a grave than a place once meant to heal.

Nearby, a little girl—no older than four—searched through a rusted trash can. Her tiny hands moved slowly, methodically, as if this had become routine. A few days ago, a bomb had killed her parents. Since then, she had wandered the streets alone, unnoticed by the world, her eyes already older than her years.

In the trash, she found the severed limbs of a young boy. It didn’t shock her. This was the eighth time she had found a body—or part of one—amidst the garbage. Without flinching, she pushed the limbs aside and continued searching.

Finally, she found what she was looking for—some broken pieces of stale bread. She ate them hastily, crumbs falling down her dirt-smudged chin. Then she picked up her doll—once beautiful and clean, now tattered and filthy, like its owner. Hugging it to her chest, she wandered for a few more minutes, then curled up between the rocks of a shattered building. There, she fell asleep.

In her dream, her parents came. They smiled, took her hand. They played together, then went to a restaurant where she ate warm food and ice cream. She ran across a garden, her laughter echoing, then returned to her father’s arms, tired and happy. He lifted her, kissed her forehead, and tucked her into bed.

But when she opened her eyes, there was no bed. No garden. No parents. Only smoke and dead bodies.

All around her, the land stretched for miles—burned, broken. Houses, once full of life and laughter, now stood silent, destroyed. The echo of children’s play had been replaced by the silence of death.

She sat up, startled, and cried with all the strength in her tiny chest, but no one heard her. Then, after a while, she wiped her face, stood up, and began to search for her parents

She walked with bare feet over broken glass and dust and long never ending fields of deserts. In one hand, she held her dirty doll. In the other, she dragged a piece of broken wood she had found in the ruins. She didn’t know why she needed it, but she felt like something bad could happen at any time.

Her feet were bleeding, but she didn’t stop. The streets she once knew were gone. There used to be a shop that sold sweets, but now there was only broken stone and ash. She softly called out, “Mama? Baba?” Her voice was weak and dry from smoke and hunger. Still, she kept calling. Each time, her voice disappeared into the empty silence.

As the sun went down, its red light made everything look like blood. She reached the place that used to be her school. The swings were broken and hung to one side. The chains were half-melted. She saw a small shoe lying in the sand. It wasn’t hers. She picked it up, looked at it for a moment, and gently placed it on a bench, as if giving it back to the child who had lost it.

That night, she hid under a broken slide to sleep. The same dream came again. Her parents were there, but this time they were far away. Her mother was calling her, but the sound was quiet, like it was coming through water. Her father held out his hand, but they were getting farther and farther from her. She ran as fast as she could, but she couldn’t reach them.

She woke up, screaming. Then everything was quiet again. Suddenly, a bomb fell nearby. The blast shook the ground, and the sky turned red with dust and fire. she was thrown to the ground. She cried out in pain. Her arm was bleeding, her leg badly bruised—but she was alive.

A man was running, trying to find shelter. He saw the little girl lying on the ground. Without thinking, he picked her up and ran as fast as he could. After a long struggle through ruined streets, he reached a hospital—a miracle in itself, for this hospital was still standing, still working.

Inside, foreign doctors moved quickly, treating wounded people with care. They were not from Gaza, but they had come because they believed in humanity more than hatred. They didn’t care about religion, borders, or politics. They cared about life.

The doctor checked her. She was lucky—her wounds were not serious. He gently cleaned her cuts and bandaged her arm. Then he asked her name.

“Marya,” she whispered.

The doctor paused. That name—it belonged to Christians, Muslims, and Jews alike. A name shared across divided faiths. A name of peace, a name belonging to one of the most beloved women in human history—the mother of Jesus.

He felt a deep sadness for the child, and for the thousands who had been killed in this brutal war. Marya lay on the hospital bed, resting. In just a few hours, she had recovered physically—but her heart was still full of pain. She was desperate to find her parents.

The last time she had seen them was before she left to visit her uncle. When she came back, her house was gone. Bombed. People told her that her parents had died. Since then, she had prayed every night to a higher power—crying, begging. But no answer came. No one seemed to hear her screams.

People around her said there is no God.

“If there was a God,” they said, “why does He let the tormentors live? Why does He let innocent people die—especially the children?”

The doctor gently touched her shoulder and told her, “You’re safe now, Marya. The wounded will be moved to another country soon. Get ready.”

But Marya didn’t want to leave. Not without her parents.

Then suddenly, in the crowd of people waiting to be evacuated, she heard a voice. A voice that made her heart stop. She turned—and saw a familiar face.

Her mother. Standing beside her, tears falling down her face. And next to her… her father.

Marya stared in shock. Was she dreaming? Was this another hallucination?

Her heart beat too fast. The world around her blurred—and she fainted from joy.

When she woke up, her parents were holding her close. The doctor stood nearby, smiling through his own tears. Her mother wept. Her father kissed her again and again. They were crying, laughing, and holding each other with a love that only those who have lost someone beloved can understand. They were, in that moment, the happiest people on earth.

Marya had been saved. Her parents too. Her prayers had been answered. Her screams were not unheard anymore.

But who answered them?

Was it God? A superior power? Or something we cannot name?

No one knows how God works. Why does He allow the tormentors to live and the innocent to die? Why does He stay silent?Does He really listen?Does He truly care?

The truth is—we don’t know.

But one thing is certain: there is some power, some force, some Being, who created all this. Whoever He is, He saved Marya and her parents.

They were taken to a safe country. Now, they are living in peace, together, as a family once more.

And Marya—Marya still prays. But now, she prays for every child who is still lost, still broken, still waiting for a miracle.

May that higher power hear their screams too. May He bring peace.And may He destroy the tormentors who know no mercy.

By Nasiruddin Hamid