‘No life without my family / No mornings without my sun, without my home.’
When I look at photos of my beloved cousins, it reminds me that I wasn’t there to comfort or honor them when they were martyred.
Just as my grandfather was forced off his land in 1948, we were forced from ours in 2025. We live with the hope of returning to our home, as he hoped to return to his.
The Israeli army enforcing the so-called “yellow” line, and the Palestinian militias positioned in our neighborhood, prevent us from returning home.
In Turkey and Belgium, it’s a day like any other. Not so in the Gaza of my memories.
With Gaza’s Enforcement Department no longer functioning, men can avoid paying support and even take sons and daughters from their mothers.
She says that losing her home at this age is completely different from losing it in childhood.
During the war, the day of communal worship became just like any other day. No mosque, no lunch, no gathering, not even a sense of time.
Now all that’s left is ruins / The child and the poet / Both orphans.
In the rest of the world, marrying means beginning a happy and secure new chapter. For Gazans, every month is a continuation of grief and instability.
My sister Islam, who shared my love of tape recording, was diligent, patient, and far brighter than me.
In 1948, my grandfather fled with only a bag of clothes. Last year he fled again—paralyzed, in a wheelchair, and carried aloft by his family.
