The Last Will of Shaheed Yahya Sinwar

I am Yahya, the son of a refugee, who turned exile into a temporary homeland and transformed a dream into an eternal battle. I write these words with every moment of my life flashing before my eyes—the childhood spent in the streets, the long years in prison, and every drop of blood shed on this land’s soil.

I was born in the Khan Younis camp in 1962, a time when Palestine was merely a torn memory, just some maps forgotten on the tables of politicians. I am someone who spent his life between fire and ashes and realized early on that living under the shadow of occupiers meant living in an eternal prison.

I understood from a young age that living on this land is not ordinary. Anyone born here must carry an invincible weapon within their heart, knowing that the path to freedom is long.

My will to you all begins here, from the boy who threw the first stone at the occupier and learned that stones are the first words with which we can make our voice heard by a world that silently watches our wounds.

I learned on the streets of Gaza that a person is not measured by the years of their age but by what they offer for their homeland. My life was defined by the prison, wars, pain, and hope. I first entered prison in 1988 and was sentenced to life, but I never let fear approach me.

Inside those dark cells, I looked at the window in every wall, showing a distant horizon. I saw light emerging from every iron bar, illuminating the path to freedom. While in prison, I learned that patience is not just a moral virtue; it is a weapon, a bitter one, like drinking the sea drop by drop.

My will to you is not to fear the prisons. Prison is just a piece of our long road to freedom. Prison taught me that freedom is not merely a right that has been taken away; it is an idea born from pain and sharpened by patience. When I was released under the “Loyalty of the Free” deal in 2011, I was no longer the same. I emerged with a stronger personality, more convinced that what we are doing is not a temporary struggle but our destiny, which we will uphold with our last drop of blood.

My will is to hold the weapon firmly, with a dignity that cannot be bargained, and with a dream that will never face death. The enemy wants us to abandon resistance and hand our cause over to endless negotiations. But I tell you: do not negotiate over what is rightfully yours. They fear your resilience more than your weapons. Resistance is not merely the arms we bear; it is our love for Palestine, renewed with every breath. Resistance is our determination to survive despite the siege and oppression.

My will is to always remain loyal to the blood of the martyrs. They have passed on and left this thorny path for us. With their blood, they paved the way to freedom. Do not let their sacrifices be wasted for the sake of political interests or the games of diplomacy. Our task is to complete what our predecessors started and never stray from this path, no matter how high the cost. Gaza has always been, and will always be, the center of resilience and the beating heart of Palestine, no matter how narrow this vast land may become for us.

When I assumed the leadership of Hamas in Gaza in 2017, it was not merely a change in leadership; it was the continuation of resistance that began with stones and continued with guns. The pain of my besieged nation tormented me daily. I knew that every step we take toward freedom demands a price. But I tell you: the cost of surrender is much greater. So cling to this land like roots clinging to soil. A nation that decides to live cannot be uprooted by any storm.

During the Al-Aqsa Storm, I was not a leader of a party or a movement. I was the voice of every Palestinian who dreams of freedom. My faith showed me that resistance is not just an optional path; it is a duty. I wanted this battle to be a new chapter in the book of Palestinian struggle, where all resistance groups unite, all become companions of the same trench, facing an enemy that never spared children, the elderly, stones, or trees.

I have left no personal legacy but a collective inheritance. For every Palestinian who has dreamed of freedom, for every mother who has carried her martyr son on her shoulders, for every father who saw his daughter writhing in pain after being struck by the enemy’s deceitful bullet and wept in grief.

My final will is to always remember that resistance is not in vain. It is not just a bullet fired; it is a life lived with dignity and honor. Prison and siege taught me that this battle is long, the path is arduous, but I have also learned that nations that refuse to surrender create miracles with their own hands.

Do not expect the world to do justice to you. I have seen with my own eyes how the world silently watched our suffering throughout my life. Do not wait for justice; become justice yourselves. Keep the dream of Palestine alive in your hearts. Turn every wound into a weapon and every tear into a spring of hope.

This is my will: do not lay down your weapons, do not put down the stones, do not forget your martyrs, and do not bargain away the dream that is your right.

We will remain here, on our land, in our hearts, and in the future of our children. I urge you all to take care of Palestine, the land I loved unto death, the dream I carried on my shoulders, like a mountain that does not bow.

If I fall, do not fall with me; rather, pick up the flag from my hand that never rested on the ground. Build a bridge from my blood for the strong generation that will rise from our ashes.

When the storm rises again, and I am not among you, understand that I was the first drop of the wave of freedom, and I lived so that I could see you complete this journey.

Remain a thorn in their throats, become a storm that does not turn back, and do not rest until the world knows that we stand for justice. We are not just numbers to be recorded in the news.