Chapter four – The Sea is Closed

The sea was the only place in Gaza that felt endless. Even the walls, the checkpoints, the fences — they could not touch the horizon of water. For Mahmoud, the sea was life itself. It had fed his father, his grandfather, and him. It was supposed to feed Omar too.

But the blockade had changed everything.

The invisible border in the sea was patrolled by gray warships, their silhouettes always present. The fishermen could barely go a few miles before warnings, shots, or worse. Every trip was a risk between hunger and survival.

Still, one morning, Mahmoud rose before dawn. He tied his fishing net with weary hands, kissed his sleeping wife and children, and set out with a small group of other fishermen. Yasmin watched him from the roof as he pushed the broken boat toward the water. The waves lapped softly at the shore, unaware of the danger above them.

“Baba will catch fish today,” Omar whispered hopefully beside her. He clutched the repaired kite string in his hand. “And we’ll eat until we’re full.”

Yasmin forced a smile. She didn’t want to crush his hope, though her chest was heavy with doubt.

The hours dragged on. Yasmin tried to focus on her schoolwork, but every tick of the clock pulled her gaze back to the sea. Omar paced, running to the roof every few minutes to squint at the horizon.

By late afternoon, Mahmoud returned. His clothes were wet, his face pale, and his boat nearly empty. Only three small fish lay in the net — barely enough for a meal.

“What happened, Baba?” Omar asked eagerly, rushing to him.

Mahmoud knelt and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. His voice was tight. “The soldiers stopped us. They fired in the water near the boats. We had to turn back.”

Omar’s face fell. “But… but you always said the sea is free.”

Mahmoud’s jaw clenched. “The sea is free, habibi. But men put walls even in the water.”

Layla took the fish quietly, hiding her tears as she went to the kitchen. Yasmin lingered by her father, watching the way his hands shook as he mended the net again, though it had no holes.

That night, dinner was thin. The three fish were stretched with rice and bread. Omar ate quickly, licking his fingers, while Yasmin pushed her food around, guilt gnawing at her. She knew her parents ate less so the children could eat more.

Later, when everyone else was asleep, Yasmin opened her diary under the candlelight.

“The sea is closed to us. My father risks his life for fish, but even the water is taken away. Omar still believes the sea belongs to everyone. I wish I could believe that too. I wish the world knew that in Gaza, even the horizon has chains.”

She paused, her eyes blurring with tears. The flame flickered as if listening. She pressed her pen harder to the page:

“But we will not stop dreaming of the sea. No wall can take away our waves.”

The next morning, Mahmoud sat silently by the shore, staring at the water. Other fishermen gathered around, their voices hushed and heavy. Yasmin and Omar followed him, their feet sinking into the sand.

“Why don’t you try again, Baba?” Omar asked.

Mahmoud sighed. “Because, habibi, they shot at us. They don’t want us to fish.”

“But the sea doesn’t belong to them,” Omar argued fiercely. His small fists clenched. “It’s ours too!”

Mahmoud smiled faintly at his son’s stubbornness. “You’re right, Omar. The sea belongs to no one. But they have guns, and we have nets.”

Yasmin felt her throat tighten. She hated how her father’s shoulders sagged, how the sea — once his pride — had become his prison. She wanted to scream at the horizon, to shout loud enough that the warships would hear.

Instead, she wrote later:

“They close the sea to break us. They think if our nets are empty, our hearts will be empty too. But Gaza’s heart is not so easy to starve.”

Days passed, each one heavier than the last. The family stretched their food thinner, shared bread with neighbors, and waited in endless lines at the market. When electricity came for two hours, everyone rushed to wash, cook, and charge devices before it disappeared again.

One evening, Yasmin sat on the roof with Omar, watching the kites again. His flew unsteadily, the patched paper fluttering, but it still soared.

“Do you think Baba will ever fish again?” Omar asked suddenly.

“Yes,” Yasmin said firmly, though doubt gnawed at her. “One day, he’ll fish as much as he wants. One day, the sea will be free again.”

Omar’s face brightened. “Then I’ll go with him. I’ll catch the biggest fish in Gaza!”

Yasmin smiled, ruffling his hair. “And I’ll cook it for you.”

In the distance, the sea shimmered beneath the setting sun. The warships remained like dark scars on the horizon, but beyond them stretched an endless blue.

For that brief moment, Yasmin believed her own words. She believed that one day, the chains would break.

That night, Mahmoud told them a story. The lights were out, the house quiet except for the hum of the lantern. Omar lay curled at his side, listening with wide eyes.

“When I was young,” Mahmoud began, “I went fishing with my father. We would rise before the sun, and the sea was ours. No ships. No soldiers. Only the sound of the waves and the cry of the gulls. We brought home nets so full that your grandmother could feed the whole street.”

Omar’s eyes shone. “Tell me more, Baba.”

Mahmoud smiled sadly. “We would sit by the shore and cook the fish on a fire. The whole beach smelled of salt and smoke. And at night, we slept under the stars, with no fear of planes.”

Yasmin listened quietly, imagining the freedom her father described. It felt like another world, another lifetime. She wrote later that night:

“The sea carries memories of freedom. My father remembers a Gaza without walls. Omar only knows a Gaza with blockades. I wonder what I will remember when I am older — the bombs, or the kites?”

The blockade tightened further. The fishermen’s boats stayed on the shore, gathering dust. Hunger grew sharper. Hospitals ran out of supplies. Yet life did not stop. Weddings still filled the streets with music, children still played soccer in the alleys, and mothers still baked bread with patient hands.

Yasmin saw it all and wrote:

“They close our land. They close our air. They close our sea. But they cannot close our spirit.”

She closed her diary and looked at Omar sleeping peacefully, his kite string wrapped around his fingers. She looked at her father, who sat awake, staring at the dark horizon.

And she realized: even when the sea was closed, Gaza’s people still dreamed of waves.

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