The war claimed member after member of Kawthar Abdalhadi’s family.

The ground was silent that morning / Not empty / silent.

There was a table once / Not a special table / Just wood / Just a surface.

Every time I try to grasp the idea that he won’t return, I feel a burning pain, like trying to stare directly into the sun.

War continues to claim lives in Gaza, through the collapse of damaged buildings as well as direct military action.

When I look at photos of my beloved cousins, it reminds me that I wasn’t there to comfort or honor them when they were martyred.

I try to scrub your absence from my skin / but you were the sunlight, noor.

Ibrahim’s crime was to stand near a target, and his death was sanitized by the term ‘collateral damage.’

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

My sister Islam, who shared my love of tape recording, was diligent, patient, and far brighter than me.

Gaza detainees talk about their time in israeli prisons.

Wash us with the water of hope / and clothe us in a white garment / not a shroud.