A Man, A Cane, and a Blanket
The Unbelievable Reality of Yahya Sinwar and the Spirit of Gaza
Are we awake, or are we dreaming?
There are times in history when reality feels stranger than fiction. When events unfold with such intensity, such impossibility, that they resemble scenes from cartoons or fantasy films—where characters fly, defeat giants, and rewrite fate itself—without anyone in the story blinking an eye.
Today, we are living through one such story.
The events unfolding in Gaza don’t feel real. They feel like they’ve been pulled from the pages of a magical tale. And at the heart of this tale stands a man—wrapped in a blanket, leaning on a cane—whose life has shaken the entire world.
His name is Yahya Sinwar.
He was born under siege. His homeland was stolen. Its name wiped from maps. He entered a world where his people were hunted, their homes razed, their freedom crushed. But instead of surrendering to despair, he stood up.
And for that, he was imprisoned.
The enemy promised he would never leave that cell. That he would rot in chains until death.
But Sinwar, even behind bars, held onto something more powerful than bars—belief.
He told his jailers plainly:
“One day I will be free… and I will take you captive.”
Years passed. His hair grayed. His youth faded. But his fire didn’t.
And then… the day came.
His comrades secured his release. And instead of fading into obscurity, he returned to the battlefield—not just as a soldier, but as a commander.
His voice thundered with a warning to the occupiers:
“If you touch our holy places, I will set the world on fire.
If you continue this siege, I will start a storm.”
And that storm came.
He launched an operation that shocked the globe. He captured his jailers. He broke the back of the enemy. He triggered a political and military earthquake that made the entire world look again at Gaza, at Palestine, at the injustice they had tried to bury for decades.
He didn’t just resist.
He reversed the narrative.
He told the enemy:
“Until you accept our conditions, nothing will change. Your prisoners will stay with us.”
They replied:
“We will destroy you. We will erase you from the map.”
And Yahya responded:
“Use every trick you have. We are standing.
Either we will win—or let another Karbala take place.”
The enemy unleashed horror.
Massacres. Bombings. Genocide.
450 days of non-stop destruction.
450 days of killing children, women, the elderly.
450 days of attempting to annihilate Gaza and break its people.
But it didn’t work.
In the end… they surrendered.
They agreed to Sinwar’s conditions.
They accepted the terms of a man with nothing but faith, grit, and love for his land.
During the war, Yahya didn’t hide in bunkers. He didn’t escape. He stayed in Gaza, amongst the people. Fighting, walking, watching—wrapped in a blanket, holding his cane, and leading with unmatched bravery.
He was heard saying:
“For a red freedom,
there is a door that is knocked on by every bloody hand.”
Now, he is gone. Martyred.
But not defeated.
Today, Yahya Sinwar looks down from the heavens.
At his masterpiece.
At the defiance carved into the soul of Gaza.
At Al-Aqsa still standing.
At the captives returned.
At the flame of resistance still burning.
Yahya’s life reads like fiction.
His story defies logic.
He seems too extraordinary to be real.
And yet—he was real.
And we are the witnesses of his era.
We saw what faith looks like when dressed in rags.
We saw what resistance means when carried by the weak.
We saw a man with a cane and a blanket write history.
This is not a fairy tale.
This is the truth.
This is Gaza.
This is Yahya Sinwar.
Reference: Ali Reza Panahian