Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Zahra’s Pink Dress…
It was never just a dress,
it was a small dream—
embroidered with the laughter of a child
who had not yet learned
how the heart hides its fear
when the sky begins to roar…
Zahra…
wrote in her notebook:
“Today, I went with my mother,
and we bought a bright pink dress
for my birthday.”
She did not know
that pink
would become
the color of absence…
O her birthday that never came,
O cake that grew cold
before the candles were blown,
O mother who baked a dream—
only for ashes to consume it…
In the corner of her notebook,
her words remained warm:
“I wish my father wouldn’t be gone…”
But absence
was faster than wishes,
and the hand of death
was closer
than the hand of her father…
What kind of world is this,
where a dress is stolen
from the closet of joy,
and childhood is hung
on the walls of war?
And as if Zahra
was not alone…
In Gaza too,
little dresses
wait for birthdays that never come,
and children
who resemble her—
in laughter…
and in loss…
What justice is this,
when powerful names
like Benjamin Netanyahu
and Donald Trump
become heavy shadows
passing over children’s notebooks—
extinguishing ink… and breath?
Zahra did not grow older…
but she is no longer afraid of absence.
She found her father’s hand
in a place untouched by bombs,
untouched by politics…
There…
she wears her pink dress
as she wished,
no war delays her birthday,
no world
steals joy
from the eyes of children…
They did not stop
at killing innocence
in Gaza… or Palestine.
Their shadow stretched
to Yemen… Iraq… Lebanon… and Syria…
And it was never the end—
but the beginning
of a widening map,
growing larger every day,
until it reaches
Egypt… and Türkiye,
in whispers of threat
and shadows of design…
As if childhood
in this region
is destined for loss.
Why the Middle East—
always the stage of wounds?
And why does the story stretch
to Venezuela…
then to Cuba?
Is it because innocence
has no voice?
Or because power
knows where to strike—
without consequence?
With deep sorrow,
they have surpassed even vampires—
not in myth…
but in reality.
Childhood was not spared—
not even in Tel Aviv,
nor across the occupied land.
For when politics ignites,
innocence becomes
the first victim—
without exception.
A child—
anywhere—
carries no guilt
to pay the price of the powerful…
And they are not alone…
There are also
the institutions of the international community
that see… and do nothing.
Those who claim humanity,
yet stand aligned
with power… or with silence.
Those who participate in the shadows…
and those who remain silent by choice…
For silence—
in the face of massacre—
is not neutrality…
but hidden complicity.
And the question will remain,
suspended above the ruins of children:
Who killed Zahra?
The bullet…
or the silence
that did not stop it?
