Abed El Hameed (Abood). Photo: Basman Derawi

I know my poem won’t
prevent the next bomb,
won’t even save itself,
from choking under the rubble.
So why do I write in the midst of a genocide?

Every time I ask myself this question,
the words of Nour Aldeen Hajjaj,
a young poet killed by Israeli missiles
that bombed his neighborhood
 of Al-Shuja’iya in December 2023,
echo in the space, penetrate to my soul:
“I do not consent to my death being passing news.”

I hear the voice of Dr. Refaat Alareer, reciting,
“If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story.”

I see the smiles of Essa and Ouda
enjoying our last tasha* on Gaza’s beach
when Essa beat Ouda again at cards
then we all enjoyed spicy grilled chicken,
its citrusy sumac flavor, while discussing
our dreams of studying for our Master’s
degree together, and traveling to Spain
to watch a soccer game live without having  
to stress our bladders during a long
exhausting circuitous journey.

I think of my friend, Abed El Hameed,
who I used to call Abood,
killed recently while going
to his job as a physiotherapist at
Médecins Sans Frontières in Deir Al Balah,
the so-called safe zone.
In addition to physiotherapy,
Abood was obsessed with history,
especially the history of Gaza,
its historical monuments,
like the Great Omari Mosque,
the Church of Saint Porphyrius,
Qasr al-Basha, that the occupier
has been hungry to erase.

I tell you the age of Eliaa, my nephew.
If the most moral army in the world
had let him live until next June,
when he would have turned four,
he could have told you himself.

I don’t write to humanize Essa, Ouda,
Nour, Refaat, Eliaa and Abood,
all passionate, resilient, caring human beings.
I write to prepare myself for our meeting.

*Tasha is when friends hang out together, enjoy their time, and have fun.

Editor’s note: Essa Fayez Essa and Ouda Al Haw are also commemorated in another of Basman’s poems, We will beat you next time. The full statement of Noor Aldeen Hajjaj is found at Passages through Genocide.