Maybe I would have sat longer in our garden / where jasmine crept up cracked walls / and everything still felt alive.
You, shrouded in the red of courage / O dearest martyr, you fell, so we remain.
Stolen childhoods remain lost forever, and broken souls carry wounds that time cannot heal.
The journalist composed the message knowing he was being targeted by Israel.
The bombs took Malik away—his smile, his joy, his heart. Now, there’s just silence.
Why do you not seem dead? / Why do I catch myself crying for you?
We are more than two million / with death circling above.
I am only / a child / but my red shoes lie buried / beneath the broken wall.
Interviews with survivors of “humanitarian” aid distribution reveal tragic stories.
Al-Baqa Café provided respite from the war until Israel targeted it and turned it into a scene of carnage.
‘Inside me, it felt like someone had shut off all the light,’ Abeer told me. ‘That was when I met Fidaa Hijazi.’
My friend did not get to graduate, become a pharmacist, or complete her novel about life under siege.
