[On the morning of October 7, the writer posted on Facebook a page from his novel “The Garden of Legs.”]

...until they all gathered in one channel and began to flow into the garden of legs. The flow was so intense, causing cracks in the mud, as if doomsday had occurred. At that time, severe tremors shook the earth, resulting in legs, feet, dreams, hot tears, fingers, and body parts planted in tires, to come out. They began to form a great body, a body with thousands of legs and hands, heads and eyes. The giant body started to stomp, announcing the start of the true journey of return to the stolen lands. Neither bullets, nor tank shells, nor heavy aircraft bombardment, could prevent it from advancing. It was a great body, with a backbone made of thousands of dead, wounded and bereaved, and formed out of   blood, souls, tears, memories, the pain of decades, the agony of grandmothers and mothers, the humiliation of fathers and the suffering of displacement. 

The body began to walk towards the east, towards the sun, towards nostalgia, towards truth, breathing the scent of oranges, and the air of Haifa and Jaffa, Asdoud , Bir Al-Sabbe’ and Jerusalem. The crowds marched behind him, taking cover in him, chanting from throats, wounded and dripping with blood: “We will return... we will return.”

Hasan was screaming: “Here the dream has become a reality... Here the feet are complete, and are rising to take their first step... It is eternity… the impossible is happening.”

[October 8th, in response to an Israeli woman who demanded the release of her grandmother, who was held hostage in Gaza.]

To the Israeli “Adva”!

Your grandmother, Adva, has, with her own hands, destroyed the dream of my grandmother, Khadra — who died at the age of eighty — and caused a tragedy that continues to this day.

My grandmother loved that land more than your grandmother does. She was born there, her skin tone matched the color of its soil, and her name was Khadra, not “Yafi”.

My grandmother died before my eyes when I was a young child who didn't understand the meaning behind her last words as she took her final breath: 'Take me home.' That day, I did not understand what she meant, so I told her, with the naivety of a child: 'You are home, grandma.' She repeated her words with a hurt voice. I was confused, looking into the eyes of those present until I met my mother's eyes, Zakiyyeh, who was embracing my grandmother. With tears, she explained to me, 'Your grandma means the house in our homeland, son.'

The home is the dream annihilated by your grandmother, Yafi, who fell captive to the refugees. Those refugees are the descendants of the people whose dreams your grandmother shattered 75 years ago.

Rest assured, Adva, your grandmother is most likely doing fine and taking her medication regularly. If my grandmother were alive, she might have cooked for her and asked about the homeland, the water well, and the jujube tree. We are very generous, Adva, but your grandmother was a dream thief

I hope you read this message, Adva, to know an important matter: You are living on the ruins of my grandmother’s dream, the ruins of my present, and the future of my children. But we will return to the truth… dead, alive, souls, images, memories…we are returning, emerging from every place, idea, potential, with the power of those who brought your grandmother to Gaza.

“We will return”, Adva, is not a slogan, but rather a conviction that transcends from my grandmother’s soul, to the soul that will emerge from the womb of my daughter Baghdad, and that extends longer than perpetuity, and beyond eternity.

November 4th,

The woman was standing in line for bread for several hours, while the line of men stopped several times, the last of which was when two men fought over who was ahead of the other to get a bundle of bread. Other men intervened to resolve the issue, until one of them threw money and bread in the air while shouting: “It’s not us who kill each other over bread.” Then he cried.

After that, the entire street became silent and everyone looked into everyone's eyes. This silence is exactly like our silence when we hear the whistle of a missile as it is approaching its target. But this time it was not a missile. It was the scream of the woman who left the bread queue and started walking, wailing silently and with pride, holding her young son’s hand, saying: “Come, son, we don’t need this bite of humiliation”

The people of Gaza have never gone through something like this. They were never poor beggars. Most of them lived in houses they owned, apartments, and beautiful neighborhoods. They bought their things with ease and excelled in studying, singing, and keeping up with fashion.

We in Gaza are not made of the clay of miracles or the supernaturals of the era, about whom poets write their helpless wishes. We are ordinary people in Gaza. We sing to music, we lie, we dance, we love braids, pies, and trips. We are human beings. We make mistakes, we curse, and we cry. Do not look at the mothers who make joyful sounds at funerals. These are women who emptied their tears in cries of joy, women whose minds were blown away with the first drop of blood that was shed from the small bodies of their children.

I swear to God, we are human beings who love life, and we are not made of rock, but rather human beings made of dust, water, and a lot of dignity.