Under the southern sky, the moon hung low, lighting the dark of the streets. I look up and see no tents, no occupation. Why don’t we live in the sky?

The warmth of the evening air around me feels like a familiar blanket. Has it travelled from Gaza to remind me where I am from? That Gaza still misses me as I miss it?

I gaze at the moon. It, faceless. Me, filled with questions. Tell me about my home. My home, which clothed me, fed me, and rocked me to sleep. That played and sang and was good to me. What’s happening in Gaza? I don’t believe the news. Are you still going there? Or are you unable to return, too?

Its light flicker gently as if to reassure me. I imagine it casting its gaze upon familiar streets. The streets where I laughed with my friends, Raneen and Farah. And grumbled with Nour on the way to our 8 a.m. lectures. Now, only my photographs remain.

Is the Islamic University of Gaza, my university, still standing? I read in the news that the Israeli soldiers were not satisfied with destroying it once. They destroyed it dozens of times. Killing my professor, Refaat Alareer, stealing my dreams of graduation and my happy memories, too.

Moon, tell me, do you still go there? Tell me about my home. The olive trees, home. The lemon trees, home. The yellow lighting of my office, home.

Please tell me about Gaza. Tell me, did the soldiers take shade under the olive tree where I studied and read my books? Or did Israel sweep it away before they had a chance?

Is the door of my house still black? Or is it smeared in the blood of the martyrs in Gaza? Is it now a disheveled grey, covered with ashes of destruction? Does it miss us? Or, unopened for more than a year, has it forgotten?

Are my clothes still wet on the clothesline? Did they shrink in the sun’s rays or shrivel in sadness after a year without me? I don’t buy any clothes here. Instead, I’ll wait for mine to dry. Then I will wear them. No clothes on the displaced.

Tell me, did Israel destroy my home?

Are there still children in Gaza?

Let me know, moon, are the children still laughing in Gaza? The displaced don’t laugh here. Do they still play in the sand? Or is this world too heavy for them? My voice trembles.

Are there still children in Gaza? Or did Israel kill them all?

The moon has become brighter. It glows in my solitude. Tell me about the lovers who used to go to the beach. I was upset because they found my place. A quiet place away from people, where I would go to jot down my thoughts. Tell me, is the wooden chair still there?

I struggled to find it. I was amazed that they did. Did they get married? Or were they separated by Israel, one in the south and one in the north? Was it the soldier’s weapon that killed them or the despair of leaving each other?

Tell me if anyone went in February to pick the strawberries. Or July’s grapes. Or October’s olives. Did anyone go? Or did the fruits fall as rain falls in June, without anyone there to collect them?

Are the balconies in Gaza still closer than lip on lip? Is our neighbor’s son, Malek, still late to school? Is his school still standing, or was it destroyed by Israeli tanks like raging bulls? Is Malek still alive?

Do you remember my tears when the municipality came to uproot the mulberry tree to open a new street? If I had known, I would have saved those tears for the day Israeli bulldozers came and wiped away all the trees. Did they leave at least one branch? Tell me!

Can you hold me with you to Gaza?

I gaze again at the moon, feeling nothingness. How did so much time pass us by? How did I spend a year and more away from my home, my pillow, my office, my university, my family, my books, and my friends? How many hearts do I need to deal with this?

But still, I am under the light of the moon. One light for everyone.

Moon, can you hold me with you to Gaza? One look is enough for me. Let me see it only once. The moonlight feels closer. Closer now than the distance to my home.