In a genocide, we are conditioned away from demanding freedom toward the more urgent demands of survival.

We / Are knocked about. We / Weave bloody shrouds.

Farmers, students, mothers: All of them have experienced a year of displacement and a year lost.

My breath mingles with dust / My face, too, with blood.

In Octobers, /  the summer said farewell. / A shivering cold stood at the door.

Enough for me / to see my friends in / Pieces.

How old are you? In times of war / A five-year-old child is not five anymore.

We are living a genocide / They said, “You don’t have the right to decide / Just flow with the survival tide”

I’m trying my hardest to keep sane: / When I see a mother’s pale face, / the one that lost its radiance after the war began

This Gazan wanted to die, but the last words of Dr. Refaat Alareer changed her mind.

My friends and I had premonitions that something terrible would happen. Little did we know how genocidal it would be.

Today, the angels of death protested in heaven / chanting loudly to the Lord / “We’re exhausted, we need rest.”