Before, Ramadan was lovely in all its details. Now, it is layered in sadness.
The Israeli army enforcing the so-called “yellow” line, and the Palestinian militias positioned in our neighborhood, prevent us from returning home.
I try to scrub your absence from my skin / but you were the sunlight, noor.
In Turkey and Belgium, it’s a day like any other. Not so in the Gaza of my memories.
Playing guitar for and with others became my therapy and my form of resistance.
My time spent teaching children in a tent added valuable information to my research on wartime schooling alternatives.
Yesterday, I was young / my little sister, also young.
Ibrahim’s crime was to stand near a target, and his death was sanitized by the term ‘collateral damage.’
Medicines in Gaza are still in short supply and expensive, due to ongoing restrictions imposed by the Israeli occupation on the entry of essential drugs.
Enemies / eating the fruit of our trees / wearing our clothes.
After so long, people are finally sleeping without the sound of bombing. People walk at night. Families sit outside.
During the war, the day of communal worship became just like any other day. No mosque, no lunch, no gathering, not even a sense of time.
