The Gaza harbor, before the war. Photo: Shahd Alnaouq

We were sitting at the harbor,
talking about university buses,
about crowding,
about nothing important.

Then the smell of fish.
Sharp.
Sudden.
We turned our heads.

Fishermen were coming toward us
from deep inside the harbor,
their nets heavy with fish,
shining as they moved.
You could tell from far away
something was still alive.

A fish,
its tail flickering,
like the Palestinian flag
cutting through the middle of the sea.

I wondered how it was still alive.
You said
it would die soon, as it has been pulled from the water.

Since childhood we are taught
that a fish dies
the moment it leaves the sea.
But it didn’t.
Maybe it wanted one last look at Gaza
from above the water.

I said that to you.
You laughed.

A pigeon stood nearby, watching.
I told you,
you and I and the pigeon
are watching together,
calm and still.

I said,
you and I and the pigeon
are happy here,
breathing the air of Gaza.
If the occupation forced the pigeon to leave,
to migrate,
it would not go.

The harbor, the fishermen, the people,
this is the pigeon’s comfort.
Then suddenly,
my mother’s voice.
Shouting.

Get up, Shahd.
Get up.
Get up.
Take only your ID
and whatever papers you can carry.
We have to leave.

The hospital was hit
by a warning missile, a drone-fired missile.
Two people were killed.
An F-16 missile is coming next.

I take the ID,
not understanding
what it is supposed to save.
I step into the street,
carrying a name.

And the smell of the harbor,
of dreams,
of wishes,
of hope,
stays behind.