we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
You were / The sigh of an orange tree / The hymn of faith, and love, and joy.
Dima Alhaj was an officer with the World Health Organization. Her supervisor said she always had a wonderful smile. Photo: WHO
Love is a garden,
Only blooming for those
Who keep its sacred vow.
The Spring has passed,
But the roses held no glow,
Their scents shrouded in absence.
Your name no more,
No longer echoes in the breeze.
Your eyes knew of sorrow,
Of what Israel can do to the blossoms,
And now you are
The sorrow in mine.
No heart for my ache.
As I return,
Carrying the shimmer of the spring,
You were
The sigh of an orange tree,
The hymn of faith, and love, and joy.
I kneel to your grave
To trace your warmth
Among the stones.
To your soil I drop,
Two tears,
And a rose.
I left the rose behind me, weeping.
Death is a season with no bloom.
I cannot fathom what has no face,
I cannot curse the void forever,
Nor plant my fury in the dust.
Rest in peace, Dima.
I will not forgive those who murdered you,
Who murder the children, who murder the bloom,
Nor pardon the silence
That let them.
I left a rose behind me, weeping.
It stayed to mourn,
Alone.
Dima with her husband and baby. They all died in the same strike. Photo circulating on social media
Dima Abdellatif Alhaj, whom Israel killed on Nov. 21, 2023 at the age of 29, was a staff member at the World Health Organization. She was an environmental activist and held a master’s graduate from Glasgow University. She was, by international means a civilian, twice over, a woman who committed her life to the preservation of life.
Yet, on November 21, 2023, an Israeli airstrike bombarded Dima’s family house near the shores of Nuseirat in the middle of the Gaza Strip. And there, she was killed collectively with her husband, infant baby, and 50 other family members all seeking refuge under one roof.
Dima would have insisted that I start not with her institutional labels, but rather, with the title that should have been enough to stop her murder: a human being. A civilian, an indigenous Palestinian simply existing on her land. She would have thought her death was no more exceptional than that of tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians who Israel deemed disposable all together, as the world watched with apathy and a performative restraint.
Today I write of a friend whose calm carried a steadfast grace, unmoved by pretense, untouched by noise.
I met Dima when I was 16, at AMIDEAST Gaza, where we studied English together for two years. In class, when she was still an undergraduate student, Dima spoke of community, Gaza’s Sea, Jerusalem, and values over personal success.
She believed in me, and embraced me with sisterly warmth, joyfully and without conditions. She welcomed me with a beautiful smile that cracked the sorrow in her eyes, one that I still carry with me. No wonder I showed up early to class for two years just to sit beside her. We taught English together for a year in Deir Al-Balah, giving teenagers from rural communities the chances we barely had.
She introduced me to her family, one of Gaza’s most respected.
Her father, Dr Abullatif Alhaj, is a revered surgeon, a professor of medicine, and deputy minister of health, a man of deep integrity.
Her mother, who cherished me like one of her own in the few times we met, is a UN community servant.
Her brother, also professor, with stoic presence, was killed in the airstrike.
Her other brother, Qassam, a brilliant medical student with a great sense of humor, was also killed in the strike.
Leen, her younger sister, a gifted artist, now has to live the loss, in a single day, of those who made her whole, her family, her home.
Last time I saw Dima was in 2021, in the yard of her family’s home where we had tea and laughter. I had gone to welcome her back upon returning from Glasgow, and grabbed the book she brought me from there.
