I yearn for a past life,
before the world turned dark.

I ache for mornings
when I walked to class,
my book bag hanging
from my shoulder in Al Aqsa University.

I mourn the bus ride
from Rafah to Gaza,
where my university stood.
I fear it is rubble now.
On the bus, I listened to music,
felt the breeze on my cheeks as I stepped off,
ready to learn again.

I listen for the lectures,
the poetry classes,
the stories by Dr. Ghannam
about Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson,
all those who molded the world with words.

I try to capture again
the spark in Dr. Junina’s eyes
as he unraveled the mysteries of
syntax and grammar
among words that shape me.

Among voices along the street,
I hear Dr. Eid’s voice,
resonating with the pain of Palestine,
his words carrying generations of struggle and resistance.

I glimpse again his steady eyes
when he spoke of the Nakba and Naksa, and hope
for a free Palestine.

I grieve for the breaks between lectures,
when I wandered the Gaza beach.
Will I feel the sand
under my feet again?

I yearn for the car-ride home
through the streets of Salah El Deen.

I still catch the spark
in my mother’s eyes
that welcomed me home
in Al Jawwazat, a warm hug at the door
and lunch on the table.

I want the exhaustion
of long hours studying,
not this trudging down shattered streets
and standing in line.

Can I fall now into a nap,
dive once more
into another world,
and dream, then awaken,
feeling intoxicated and comforted,
ready for a new day of work?

Where is the fire in my soul
for the worlds within books,
the wisdom and solace
and passion I found in them.

I long for dreams of graduating,
of reaching to take a diploma in my hands,
not this piece of bread.

Standing on hills of rubble,
I mourn for the person I used to be.