(1)

Excerpt from "Diaries of Gaza: Poem in the Anthem of Death," published on October 20, 2023.

(...)

I am in a dilemma: to leave with my wife and daughter, or to stay. Unfortunately, I chose the worse of the two; my wife went south, and I remained at home with my family, my parents and siblings. My father, who is in his sixties, refused to repeat the tragedy of his father 75 years ago and leave his home. Fate awaits me here, and I will die. That's what he said.

He also gave us the freedom to leave, but who leaves his father to die? I made it clear, "I won't leave until you leave." Or as is said in local dialect “my foot on yours, only when everyone leaves, I would leave.”

As I mentioned before, war changes everything, but it does not change itself. Now, the war confronts us with new choices: to die apart or to die together. My wife and daughter left, and I stayed with my family, certain of my inevitable death. When? Let’s wait and see.

My wife speaks to me, pleading for me to leave. I spend my nights contemplating a pain like never before. Am I afraid of death? Which death? The death we've witnessed for years or the new, different death in this war? It's not death that's frightening.

My heart remains tied to the little girl I saw walking for the first time a few days ago, and during the war. I told her “Come on, walk. Come on, my little one. Come to me.” I rejoiced. And she rejoiced. Her footsteps felt like she was gently treading my heart. And so, I thought of her. Will I die and leave her? How will she survive without me? How will she live with memories of just a few days spent with me?

This is the equation, then. These are the choices of war, that change, and vary, and keep us between multiple fires, some in our hearts, others outside - rockets, shells, and the scorching, endless waiting...

(2)

Poem "Look a Little, O Death," published as part of a poems collection on October 18, 2023 

Look at us a little, O Death

Look, if only for a moment, at our situation

Look at our eyes

Perhaps they were blue or green

Or held a hint

Of another color

 Look a little at  our children's hair under the rubble

Perhaps behind the whiteness of the missiles

Lies a touch of blonde

Or perhaps soft enough

To mend the roughness of the refugee camps

Look a little

On the bodies of our women and girls

Maybe their measurements were somewhat modern

And maybe their hair

Was brushed before the tragedy,

Or their faces

Before the stain of blood,

Were full of adornment

Look, O Death

Check  our shirts

Maybe amidst the shrapnels, you find

Something we bought from international brands

Take your time

Before swooping down to choose us as your preys

Maybe we were Western enough for you to go away

And leave us to get on with our lives

Even if just for a little while

(3)

Another excerpt from "Diaries of Gaza: Poem in the Anthem of Death," published on October 20, 2023.

(...)

Alone, I tidy up the house, telling myself there are two or three possibilities: either it gets bombed, and everything ends, or I leave it and come back to it later, or things go smoothly, and the house remains in its simple familiar beauty. The last possibility is the hardest and most distant.

I cleaned the carpets and dusted the windowsills. From here, I looked to see where I heard the rocket fall. I need it clean, tidy, and good enough to leisurely explore the way others die. I watered the plants in the living room and the library. I remembered my wife, always scolding me for forgetting to water the plants. This time, I didn't forget. I decided to make everything as it should be. I watered the small cactus on the desk, always contemplating it. The cactus represents us. It tells my story, for I have seen in it all the hardships of life, which plant thorns in our hands, yet grows something beautiful inside us, worth working for.

Gaza, how much this city has tired us, elusive to understanding. Who understands his city? Does it truly love us? Why does it throw us into this destruction every time? Are cities really our cities, where we've kept our memories, or are they images of our hidden enemies in the memories, masked by beautiful moments?

I won’t know the answer, for I may be next to die, and maybe, if I survive, I still won’t know it, because I realize that within us, we harbor hatred for our cities and their memories.

(Gaza City… from under bombardment. Written with difficulty via the mobile, amidst power, communication, and internet cuts.)

(4)

Poem "No One Will Hear a Sound Anymore," published on October 28, 2023.

In the morning, we wake

From our temporary death

To await our permanent death...

Every time a child opens his eyes

A blossom appears on the almond trees

He didn’t sleep long and didn’t die

So says the tree...

Then it smiles at life with a welcoming heart

Every time a rocket hits a place

Many birds soar

Behind the smoke and remnants of clouds

Attending the funeral of another child taken by war

Mourning the hand of a child

That would have fed them grains the next morning...

But his hand is gone

In the evening

We cover ourselves with our thick blankets

It is not cold, as the temperature is quite normal

It's a simple belief that something like fabric

Can succeed in protecting us

Like soldiers' helmets against bullets

Many children sleep side by side

Tired from long laughter

From screaming and usual mischief

It's okay, sleep from your exhaustion

Perhaps you'll stay asleep

Perhaps no one will hear a sound from now on...

From your fragile bodies

As soon as they are pierced by malicious shrapnel

The missile falls

The explosion resonates

The man embraces his child

Little girls cry

The mother prays with her heart filled with the pain of days

And words doze off for a long, long time

Except for the cries of the caller at the funeral...

We lose a friend

And we weep at the table where the dead are washed

Quickly and for just a few minutes

No room for prolonged grief

Life must go on

Our feet must take a rest

From running behind funerals

To prepare for running from the shells' death

One by one, we transform into coffins

Our pieces gathered from above the rubble

Strips of fabric that remained white

For the shrouds, too,

Could not believe what's happening...

The martyr said:

"We will not depart, and we will not leave except to the sky"

Let them declare the death of language after him.

(5)

Excerpt from "Longing for My Home," published on December 28, 2023.

(...)

We were forced to flee from the horror of the shells struck by artillery. The bombardment intensified suddenly; a house at the beginning of the street was obliterated, another one in the middle, was burned. They threw smoke grenades, suffocating everyone in the house. The decisive moment was approaching; my mother is crying, my father is collapsing, the mountain of stubbornness he clung to since the beginning of the war, refraining from leaving the house, as if he remembered his father when he left the village of Hamama in 1948, refusing to repeat his stance. The little children are screaming, women in prolonged fear, and we, the men, are in terrifying confusion, not knowing what to do.

The decision was made: Let’s flee. We chose to risk our lives to flee quickly, as the next shell could fall on us, and we might burn like others in this arbitrary death. With great difficulty, we reached another area, thinking it might be lighter on bombardment and less deadly, but it's not like that in Gaza; there is no lesser or lighter death. In Gaza, death is the headline, with various forms, colors, and voices, but it remains death.

The next day, I decided to move to the South, to the city of Rafah, where some relatives might host me. I left my family, my father, mother, and siblings in Gaza, who were adamant and determined to stay. That moment was the moment of my absence from home; a long-lasting moment, and I don't know when it will end. The moment I dream of its ending, sleeping and waking, waiting for it to be a mirage...