Twinkling pinpricks of light in the dark, filling the void of darkness. All was quiet—except for the whispers and gentle murmurs of prayer that echoed softly. The moon, like a giant aperture, gazed down at us. As it rested in its orbit, I wondered what this scene of refugees would look like from the lunar surface. A sea of displaced people, guided only by the moon and stars—beacons of hope amidst the vast, unforgiving night. I wondered if all the lost souls of the world sought solace in the sky. Lost in the blue-black expanse, I felt a rush, a fleeting mercurial high. The stars, distant in the gulf of space, also sat in a cold, dark nothingness—yet they shone.
I often find myself envying the night sky. Indifferent to the borders that have been etched onto the earth below. Their light is ancient. The stars have stood for tens of thousands of years, seeing and holding the stories of my parents, my grandparents, and my ancestors. Wherever we stand—a rooftop in our Sydney CBD, or beneath the fractured skyline of Gaza—the stars remain the same. Yet the lives lived beneath them could not be more different.
In Gaza, the night comes cloaked not in stillness but in fear. For some, the stars may offer a respite—a fragile distraction from the hum of drones overhead that grow louder and louder by the minute. The constant thunder of explosions that creep over the villages. I think of the mothers who tuck their children into bed. Unsure if this moment will be their last. Maybe they find comfort in the sky, a feeling of their families, no longer with them, watching over. I imagine them stroking away the hairs of their children gently, telling them that they will be okay. Their voices carry the weight of hope, but also the heavy knowledge of a world that watches without intervening.
Meanwhile, miles away, in the bustling West—Sydney perhaps—someone else looks up at that very same sky. But here, the night is tranquil, undisturbed by anything except the passing of cars and the soft murmur of wind. People walk under the constellations above them, their conversations lighthearted, their lives—untouched by war. For them, the stars are a backdrop to the comfort that surrounds them.
And yet, the stars connect these worlds. A ball of gas, far away, burning relentlessly in the void of space—acts as a silent witness to both their peace and their pain. It knows the story of the student in Gaza, who is unable to continue their dream. Now that every university has been bombed, the determination of a brighter future becomes impossible in the darkness of war. It knows the laughter of children in safer corners of the world, running across front yards without fear of drones or mass carpet bombs.
What is it, then, about the stars that both separate and unite us? Is it their permanence? Could it assure us of a beauty that might transcend human suffering? Or does it remain a momentary light of hope, a glow in the darkness that might offer temporary respite to someone?
A child in Gaza dreams of the stars beyond the conflict, longing for a future where she can gaze at them without fear. Somewhere else, a child dreams of flying to those stars, a world so removed from earthly troubles that it feels like a paradise. Both are filled with wonder, yet one is anchored to survival, the other to ambition.
Perhaps the stars are not indifferent after all. Perhaps their quiet constancy is their greatest gift, a cosmic reminder that, while our lives may diverge—through privilege, suffering, and sheer luck—we are all tethered to the same sky. And under that sky, there remains a hope, however fragile, that one day we will see just the stars. Watching them glisten without the fear of bombs clouding the sky.