November 27th, 2023

I met two girls today, Nisreen and Malak Al-Attar. Nisreen is 9 years old, and according to her mother, she aspires to become a pharmacist. But when I asked her, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' Her answer was, an architect.

Nisreen says she loves the sea. We're in front of the sea right now, Nisreen! But this is not the sea she loves. Nisreen cherishes a former  sea; the one she used to visit with her family during summer vacations. The sea where she used to swim with her father, who would take her to the farthest spot, where her little finger pointed.

She says she could sleep in deep water and dive for a long while beneath waves. I asked her if she has ever swam in the sea of Deir Al-Balah. She told me that the cruiser is still there, and she’s afraid of it. Yesterday, the cruiser shot the fish in the water, destroying their homes and the rocks too, Nisreen says. 'The rocks collapsed above the fish, and now their backs hurt!' She explained  with her hand how a fish swims after being bombed.

Nisreen has a little fish in her heart, it seems, that she could  sense what happens deep in our sea.

December 25th, 2023

Who am I to think of surviving?
I’m not a bird, I’ve never held a cloud in my hand, and I don’t know how Santa Claus’s reindeer flies with a sleigh full of children’s gifts. Who am I to be welcomed into a normal life, with its ordinary sadness over a friend going away or grandparents dying? Where I plant basil on my windowsill, take care of my front doorstep, and splash cups of tea without caring about water shortages? Where I cover my hands with engraved silver rings from Jerusalem, my greatest fear I’ll mislay one of them among the drawers? I don’t think about food supplies as I know very well I’m not hungry, even though I haven’t had breakfast. I don’t care about the price of cheese, because it’s there in the market, and I don’t crave a piece of chocolate.

Who am I to escape this death?

I’m not rich enough to pay the 5,000 dollars it costs to arrange a border crossing. My grandfather didn’t know that his royal line would inherit a refugees’ life, so he spent his sadness between windows of hope that they would return to their land. Apart from a refugee’s life, he bequeathed me nothing but hope. Not even the window. All the windows of our city were shattered, Grandfather. The windows were assassinated.

And what memory will I carry after survival? To whom will I tell everything that’s happening now?

I’ll say we survived!

What survival is this?

And for what?

What life awaits me while I'm still ensnared in my home before displacement?

I want to return to my dresses hung up in the closet. To the chickens. I want the crepe-myrtle, shedding its autumn on our doorstep. I want to embrace the palm tree in the courtyard, to play on the grandchildren’s swing. I want my mother, who used to welcome coffee cups with a new story each day, to come to life from beneath the ruins of our city. 

For all this life that we left behind after our deaths, we deserve to survive.

December 19th, 2023

December of wishes,

12 days until the new year, and 74 since the war began. We toss the days between the palms of our hands, no fate lines to read, no eyes to see a present life.

We cling to the monologue of our destinies, with our bare feet on the way.

Writer Ziad Khaddash tells me, 'Don’t you dare die, Bisan. I’ll be upset with you if you do!

The idea of death is very possible, even if you’re 'south of the valley,' an illusionary safe zone imposed upon us by the occupation. The shadow of Azrael accompanies us in this place. Despite my curiosity about life after death and the scenarios I often envision, except that I reject this death, my dear Ziad."

I say to Bahaa*: I have just one weird request from death, it’s about the method…

I haven't done anything to become limbs or suffer. If I die, I want it to be in one piece. I've come up with my own law, which I call 'the right to death,' in the way that suits me best. Like foreigners, for instance, who take their grandparents' ashes and scatter them wherever the will says, be it in the sea or the forest!

The method during an aggression: a single piece of shrapnel pierces my soul and leaves this body intact for others to bid farewell.

I want to die whole, a warm body capable of being hugged. I contemplate the final image my soul will capture before I die, I don’t want it to be tragic. It should be ordinary, like a shrapnel hitting me while I cross the street. This way, I can preserve the scenery of the sky, with all the refugees such as myself, the voices of merchants, the footsteps of kids, the pale faces of fathers, and the donkey carts that have become a mode of transportation after  fuel cuts and  shortage of cars.

I alone, and no one else, have the right to die in such a way!

The first right we learned about was 'the right to life,' and now we need to enact the right to die.

Despite my curiosity about my life, how it will look, what it will become, there are times when I want to step on the roof ladder that stretches toward the sky. Not for any specific reason, but perhaps the sky can lend me its eyes for a bit, to see what I don’t see from a human body subjected to bombings, and one with no choice but to become  war material, to either survive or be killed.

In the larger book that encompasses our smaller book of life, is it acknowledged that we were more than just bodies, mere numbers and names? We had something in this world, we ate and slept and woke up and laughed, and we were imagining our life on another planet, where our dreams – of a photo on the beach or friends’ gathering – would survive. 

In fact, we were just good material for humanitarian aid agencies and human rights organizations, so the donor would come, take photos of us and feel astonished.

Then he would return to the warmth of his home  where the snow and pine trees are. By then we will be restoring the remnants of our emotions while he plans his summer vacation after earning a substantial amount for entering a conflict zone and risking his life,  while we were trying, with the crumbs of our salary, to carve out a quiet moment by the sea. They took away from us, the sea and the friends.

I wish to have a longer arm, to hang a swing on it for Malak and Nisreen Al-Attar. I don't want to leave them in the shelter, searching for their normal sea, from before the war. I refuse to leave them in fear of the Israeli cruiser.

I want my arm to become a veil, so when the Attar kittens sleep, I cover them with some safety. 

I’m afraid to leave them behind, or for them to leave me without a goodbye kiss.

I want for my spine to become a ladder stretching from the south of the valley to where my friends in Gaza are. I want it to bear the weight of their exhausted bodies as I carry them on my back, and since the journey is long, I'll jog with their feet.

Dear Ziad Khaddash,

I wished to write a whole text  about our journey together at the international book fair and through the streets of Ramallah, where I believed that God had gifted me with hope. However, as I write to you now, the sounds of bombardment are intensifying around us unexpectedly. I am writing to let you know that I am still able to survive with my grave. 

* Bahaa Eleyan is the writer's friend from Gaza, who is currently living in Norway.