Brushing teeth, combing hair, and bathing become immense challenges for civilians living through war.
A young man is distraught over the beloved horse he had to leave behind when he was displaced to southern Gaza.
Cramped housing, reduced study or job prospects, depleted savings, crushing sorrow: ‘It doesn’t feel like living.’
I shall not speak / mouth stitched, eyes blind / limbs amputated.
‘No matter how much the occupation destroys, we will remain in Gaza and so will the olive trees.’
My nephew Hamood looks beyond his amputation and other unrepaired injuries, and toward the day when he can play soccer again.
The sun rises over Gaza / piercing another suffocating night / after the atrocities of an endless siege.
When divine justice / finally rings its bell / Will political cloaks / fend off hell?
Hadeel has been forced to move multiple times, each time to a new camp, new tent, and new neighbors she does not know.
‘Perhaps Mahmoud couldn’t bear life without his brother, but how can we bear the loss of them both?’
Dreamwork has offered a little relief, but the dreams of the conscious mind are loaded with debris and uncertainty.
Her ‘laboratory of joy’ unites our family despite genocide and displacement.
