‘No life without my family / No mornings without my sun, without my home.’

What happens when the documents proving ownership of our home are destroyed, along with our home?

Communities find strength as prayers rise from Gaza City’s tent mosques.

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.

Listening to my students, I feel as though I am standing between their childhoods and the war, trying to help them build a bridge towards hope.

My meal at Ayloul Palestinian Restaurant transported me back to Gaza, when I used to gather with cousins around a large plate of my grandmother’s maftoul.

In Turkey and Belgium, it’s a day like any other. Not so in the Gaza of my memories.

In the beginning was the Word, / and the Word was watched, / and the watchers were afraid of it.

Even though the bombs stopped on paper, life in Gaza remains a struggle for the basics of survival.

Yesterday, I was young / my little sister, also young.

Enemies / eating the fruit of our trees / wearing our clothes.

Now all that’s left is ruins / The child and the poet / Both orphans.