Had not this year gone by, I’d never know / That three hundred sixty-five days unfold / In ink-black shadows.
In Octobers, / the summer said farewell. / A shivering cold stood at the door.
For many, the attack on Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital left both the living and the dead beyond recognition.
Malak was devastated by the war’s interruption of her education but now looks toward new opportunities.
Enough for me / to see my friends in / Pieces.
Stuck in a grim reality, she retreats to a dream state with no horrors, only nature’s tapestry and jazz.
Surviving the genocide in Gaza is the only life my child knows. I fight every day to keep him alive.
My father repaired cars for a living. After an Israeli airstrike injured him, he desperately needed repair himself.
My lifelong aversion to the flamboyant color began to make more sense after a night of bombardment.
O world, have you witnessed what transpired? / The voices of truth-tellers are silenced.
It’s cold outside. / It has now been two weeks, / Three days, perhaps seven hours, / That I became houseless.
In a corner of our rented third-story house / Clay stuck to straw / A home for a future family
