Screenshot from DW news video on the mass funeral held for 112 members of two extended families killed in Israeli airstrikes.

The ground was silent that morning.

Not empty —
silent.

It carried beneath its chest
the weight of a family,
the dreams of children,
the hands of mothers,
the footsteps of those
who once walked upon it.

The sky stood above Gaza,
wide and uncertain,
as if even the heavens
did not know where to place their grief.

After one thousand and ninety-nine days,
the earth opened her hands.

Not to take them,
but to return them.

One hundred and twelve souls
from the Abu Sharia family
rose from beneath the rubble —
doctors,
engineers,
mothers,
fathers,
children,
infants.

A whole family
written back into the memory of the land.

Gaza did not receive bodies that day.

She received names.

A mother of five stood on a rooftop,
holding flowers,
candies,
and the tears she could not hide.

She called to the sky:

Long live the martyrs.

A child who lost both parents
looked through a broken window.

The world was shattered before his eyes,
yet his voice remained:

For you, Palestine.

A man who survived
the death of everyone he loved
carried the remains of his family —
bones, photographs, memories.

He carried a universe
inside his wounded hands.

And he said:

The martyrs do not die.

An uncle who buried fifteen hearts
raised his voice:

Allah Akbar.

Not as a farewell,
but as a promise.

This land knows our footsteps.
This soil knows our names.
We live here.
We die here.

The streets of Gaza filled again.

Not only with mourning,
but with thousands of hands
reaching for the flag-covered bodies,
fighting for the honor
of carrying those
who carried Gaza before them.

Coffee was poured beside graves.

Stories were shared beside ruins.

And every wound
opened another memory.

Today,
the rubble has finally spoken.

It returned the last words
of those who rested beneath it.

Those who protected the earth,
and were protected by it.

Today, Gaza wears her grief
like an ancient dress.

And the land whispers:

They were never buried beneath me.

They were planted.

And I will remember their names.

Author’s note: The poem was inspired by the funeral held August 4, 2026, for 112 members of the Abu Sharia family in Gaza, whose remains were recovered from beneath the rubble more than two years after they were killed. Three hundred and eight members of the family were killed, while the remains of only 112 have been recovered. They were my neighbors, and I knew many of them personally.

This poem is republished with permission from The New Verse News.