In one small tote, I carry my homeland, my memories, and my identity. It is an unfinished journey.
I wait on pins and needles for the rising of the sun / To know I am fine.
The horrors of forced moves from one shelter to another for 20 months is nothing compared to losing my father, uncle, and brother.
This year the celebration came with no feast, no laughter, no visits to relatives, and the loss of a loved one who made it special.
My brother was killed during the holiday more than 10 years ago. It still leaves a gap in my life and in the life of his son.
My grandfather’s garden was destroyed by Israeli tanks, but our connection to the land is not so easily erased.
There are no quiet moments after an explosion, only the fear that another bomb is on its way.
Everyone I loved has become a martyr. But I am here for you, my son, my father, my brother, my husband. And for Gaza.
The month where seasons change from spring to summer has always been a time for celebrations—but not this year.
The many good things I took for granted came with no guarantee.
When Ahmed was killed, I lost my cousin, my confidant, and my constant companion. But Jasmin lost so much more.
In Gaza, death has scarred every surviving soul, yet we survive, as individuals, and as a nation.
