Poetry and Testimony from the Gaza Genocide

These selected testimonies and poems were made available and translated by Protean Magazine and Passages Through Genocide (https://www.gazapassages.com).1

Hiba Abu Nada

Translated by Huda Fakhreddine

Hiba was a writer from Gaza. Her first novel, Oxygen Is Not for the Dead, was published in 2017 and won the Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity in 2017. On the evening of October 20, 2024, she was killed alongside her family when their home in the Manara neighborhood of Khan Yunis was bombed. She was thirty-two years old. Her poem “I Grant You Refuge” was written on October 10 and is among the last pieces she wrote before being martyred by an Israeli airstrike on October 20. We are grateful to Huda Fakhreddine for her translation. Fakhreddine is associate professor of Arabic literature at the University of Pennsylvania.2

I Grant You Refuge

I grant you refuge

in invocation and prayer.

I bless the neighborhood and the minaret

to guard them

from the rocket

from the moment

it is a general’s command

until it becomes

a raid.

I grant you and the little ones refuge,

the little ones who

change the rocket’s course

before it lands

with their smiles.

I grant you and the little ones refuge,

the little ones now asleep like chicks in a nest.

They don’t walk in their sleep toward dreams.

They know death lurks outside the house.

Their mothers’ tears are now doves

following them, trailing behind

every coffin.

I grant the father refuge,

the little ones’ father who holds the house upright

when it tilts after the bombs.

He implores the moment of death:

“Have mercy. Spare me a little while.

For their sake, I’ve learned to love my life.

Grant them a death

as beautiful as they are.”

I grant you refuge

from hurt and death,

refuge in the glory of our siege,

here in the belly of the whale.

Our streets exalt God with every bomb.

They pray for the mosques and the houses.

And every time the bombing begins in the North,

our supplications rise in the South.

I grant you refuge

from hurt and suffering.

With words of sacred scripture

I shield the oranges from the sting of phosphorous

and the shades of cloud from the smog.

I grant you refuge in knowing

that the dust will clear,

and they who fell in love and died together

will one day laugh.

Beesan Nateel

A writer and author of the children’s book Crazy Luna (Luna al-Majnuna). From Gaza City.3

December 25th, 2023

Who am I to think of surviving?

I’m not a bird, I’ve never held a cloud in my hand, and I don’t know how Santa Claus’s reindeer flies with a sleigh full of children’s gifts.

Who am I to be welcomed into a normal life, with its ordinary sadness over a friend going away or grandparents dying? A life where I plant basil on my windowsill, take care of my front doorstep, and splash cups of tea without caring about water shortages? Where I cover my hands with engraved silver rings from Jerusalem, my greatest fear being that I’ll mislay one of them among the drawers. A life where I don’t think about food supplies as I know very well I’m not hungry, even though I haven’t had breakfast. Where I don’t care about the price of cheese, because it’s there in the market, and I don’t crave a piece of chocolate.

Who am I to escape this death?

I’m not rich enough to pay the 5,000 dollars it costs to arrange a border crossing. My grandfather didn’t know that his royal line would inherit a refugees’ life, so he spent his sadness between windows of hope for a return to their land. Apart from a refugee’s life, he bequeathed me nothing but hope. Not even the window. All the windows of our city were shattered, Grandfather. The windows were assassinated.

And what memory will I carry after survival? To whom will I tell everything that’s happening now?

I’ll say we survived!

But what survival is this?

And for what?

What life awaits me while I’m still ensnared in my home before displacement?

I want to return to my dresses hung up in the closet. To the chickens. I want the myrtle tree to shed its autumn on our doorstep. I want to embrace the palm tree in the courtyard, to play on the grandchildren’s swing. I want my mother, who used to welcome coffee cups with a new story each day, to come to life from beneath the ruins of our city.

For all this life that we left behind after our deaths, we deserve to survive.

Al-Meqdad Jameel Meqdad

A writer and researcher from Gaza City.4

“Look a Little, O Death” [October 18, 2023]

Look at us a little, O Death

Look, if only for a moment, at our situation

Look at our eyes

Perhaps they were blue or green

Or held a hint

Of another color

Look a little at our children’s hair under the rubble

Perhaps behind the whiteness of the missiles

Lies a touch of blonde

Or perhaps soft enough

To mend the roughness of the refugee camps

Look a little

On the bodies of our women and girls

Maybe their measurements were somewhat modern

And maybe their hair

Was brushed before the tragedy,

Or their faces

Before the stain of blood,

Were full of adornment

Look, O Death

Check our shirts

Maybe amidst the shrapnels, you find

Something we bought from international brands

Take your time

Before swooping down to choose us as your prey

Maybe we were Western enough for you to go away

And leave us to get on with our lives

Even if just for a little while

Ebraheem Matar

Ebraheem is a doctor who was working in the intensive care unit in al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Jabalia, Gaza. He is also a blogger.5

Dec. 24, 2023

I wonder, will I survive and return to my beloved Gaza one day? Will I go back to doing the simple things I love?

Taking long walks in its streets, sitting by the sea in the early hours of the morning to contemplate the vast blue sea and the wide sky above, knowing that the sky and the sea are our only connection to the outside world.

Will I go back to listening to music by the sea with friends, while talking, laughing and mocking the world, singing and chatting until the morning comes?

Will I sit again in that café that serves that amazing coffee and magical Nutella cake, and feel like I am in the most beautiful city of the world? Will I go back to sitting with my mother by the sea to watch the sunset, to witness and celebrate the sun swimming in the sea? A scene that my mother loves so much, and thinks it’s the most beautiful scene in life? Will we walk at night on cold days to feel the light wind sting our cheeks and touch the raindrops with our hands?

Will we go back to slowly strolling down Al-Rimal neighborhood and having the best time of our lives in Omar Al-Mukhtar Market? Will we return to our favorite meal? A falafel sandwich with hot sauce from Al Soussi, followed by lemon slush from Kazim Ice Cream—the most delicious combination in the world?

Will we study again at the university, and then sit in Al-Katiba Park?

To watch the bright greenness of the grass, and breathe in fresh air; our natural air conditioning coming from the trees and the sea, as uncle Abu Ahmad says, while preparing tea for us.

Will men go back to the Gaza port at six in the morning to buy fresh fish as soon as it comes out of the sea? O Gaza, will we once again eat fish from your sea, fill our stomachs infinitely, and become overwhelmed with happiness?

Will we go back to taking a tour in the sea waters on a boat from the port?

Will that good family, extending from grandfather to child, return to going to the sea in a big bus on Friday morning to stay until nighttime? [W]hile the children celebrate and swim until their souls are touched by the salt and sand, playing and rejoicing until they are tired?

Will I go back to walking in the mornings by the sea without being caught by any missile?

Will I go back to dreaming of becoming the champion of all champions in that luxurious gym that I love, and then go shopping in the most beautiful mall in the world—Carefour?

Will I go back to considering that Gaza is enough to suffice me from all the cities in the world, and that its simple attributes are very capable of providing a full life? Will I go back to hating moving abroad, and trying to stay close to my father, mother, tree, and home?

Will we return to walking in the streets without fear of stumbling upon a corpse in the road, or a broken tree, or a building lying on the ground?

Will we know how to walk on a street with even asphalt, instead of broken stones? Oh God, will we wake up from the long nightmare of war and return to Gaza?

Noor Aldeen Hajjaj

A writer from Shuja’iyya, Gaza. His novel Wings That Do Not Fly was published in 2021, and in 2022 his first play, The Grey Ones, was performed on stage. Martyred on December 2, 2023, in the carpet bombing of Shuja’iyya.6

2nd November 2023

Today I went for a little walk around the city—or rather, what remains of it.

I saw how its colours have contracted into one single colour. Where did this grey come from, this grey that has the power to impose itself upon all the colours we know, if not bearing tonnes of explosives?

I walked across vast amounts of rubble, trying to tread carefully, as if in a minefield, so as to avoid every spot where children had sketched out dreams upon memories.

I wasn’t afraid of touching frayed electrical cables in the street; they were just hangman’s nooses, witnesses to all this destruction.

I saw mountains of shrouds being carried on a truck to the last and only safe place on earth.

There are no funeral processions in which martyrs are carried upon shoulders to their final resting place, because their entire families—martyrs just like them—accompany them to the grave.

Perhaps the last wish they made before the bombs fell was the same we all make: If we are to die, then let us die together. We don’t want to give death the chance to leave one of us alone, grieving for the rest of his or her life over the life the others should have lived.

I passed by a school for displaced children, and my heart bled to see how humanity can be violated, how our basic needs can be stripped down such that we end up haggling over a gallon of water or a paracetamol.

Other people are walking in all four directions searching for a bundle of bread, or somewhere to charge the batteries of the torch they use at night, or water that’s safe to drink, or other basic necessities that aren’t available any more.

All this was just in the course of a short walk, no more than thirty minutes, which took me up and down a few nearby streets. Most of the houses hadn’t survived the strikes that hit their roofs, and had fallen to the ground, collapsing on top of their inhabitants.

God, the scale of the catastrophe. Words and images cannot come close to conveying it. We can’t bear all this any more . . .

We’re so tired. Please God let this be over sooner, and not later.

Mahmoud Joudah

Writer of mainly short stories from Gaza City.7

October 8, 2023

[October 8th, in response to an Israeli woman who demanded the release of her grandmother, who was held hostage in Gaza.]

To the Israeli “Adva”!

Your grandmother, Adva, has, with her own hands, destroyed the dream of my grandmother, Khadra—who died at the age of eighty—and caused a tragedy that continues to this day.

My grandmother loved that land more than your grandmother does. She was born there, her skin tone matched the color of its soil, and her name was Khadra, not “Yafi.”

My grandmother died before my eyes when I was a young child who didn’t understand the meaning behind her last words as she took her final breath: “Take me home.” That day, I did not understand what she meant, so I told her, with the naivety of a child: “You are home, grandma.” She repeated her words with a hurt voice. I was confused, looking into the eyes of those present until I met my mother’s eyes, Zakiyyeh, who was embracing my grandmother. With tears, she explained to me, “Your grandma means the house in our homeland, son.”

The home is the dream annihilated by your grandmother, Yafi, who fell captive to the refugees. Those refugees are the descendants of the people whose dreams your grandmother shattered 75 years ago.

Rest assured, Adva, your grandmother is most likely doing fine and taking her medication regularly. If my grandmother were alive, she might have cooked for her and asked about the homeland, the water well, and the jujube tree. We are very generous, Adva, but your grandmother was a dream thief[.]

I hope you read this message, Adva, to know an important matter: You are living on the ruins of my grandmother’s dream, the ruins of my present, and the future of my children. But we will return to the truth . . . dead, alive, souls, images, memories . . . we are returning, emerging from every place, idea, potential, with the power of those who brought your grandmother to Gaza.

“We will return,” Adva, is not a slogan, but rather a conviction that rises from my grandmother’s soul, to the soul that will emerge from the womb of my daughter Baghdad, and that extends longer than perpetuity, and beyond eternity.

Nidal al-Faqawi

Nidal is a poet from Khan Yunis and the author of the collection A Noon: Poems in the Cobbler’s Cart. He was displaced to Rafah. Israeli occupation snipers occupied his home, his library, and the poetry retreat where he worked and wrote. They threw his books from the upper floor, burned the place, and withdrew.

October 17, 2023

No time

The mood of the celestial robots has soured

And we—the sons of the underworld—must find a way to talk to the metal.

It seems that the signaling does not work

And engraving four Latin letters in the squares asking for help,

does not suit our souls.

We don’t have time, friends.

The flying insects must stop playing the game of lighting fires, while we dismantle the explosive messages and arrange the words.

Every poet must think about the last poem and stop using metaphors.

December 12, 2023

Nine days and eight nights in Rafah. I retreated ten kilometers south of the holocaust. The Khan Yunis Holocaust, which will reach everyone, just as it did in Gaza and its north. I retreated—may God forgive me for this tactical withdrawal—in order to save my soul, as I have nothing else left.

For nine days I sleep in the street, after arduous negotiations with people to convince them I am not wanted by Israel. My name is Nidal al-Faqawi. A poet. Haha, a poet does not kill unless his child is hungry. Thank God I have biscuits and a loaf in my backpack. I just don’t have a place to sleep, and this is not a problem for poets, but my wife is eight months pregnant and my child, Adam, will definitely not be a poet after this.

On the fourth day, I found a crowded place for Adam and his pregnant mother, thank God.

I remained, the schools are overcrowded, and do not accept a single man. People are afraid of you and do not allow you to sleep on God’s sidewalks alone.

You must explain yourself, enumerate your acquaintances, and get a reference over the phone to say: yes, yes, Nidal al-Faqawi, true, true, let him sleep in the neighborhood, I know him well, shame on you for leaving him in the street in the first place . . . call disconnected.

Finally, I slept alone in the street without fear for Adam and his mother—what a blessing!

In the morning, I hear: Do not return to this sidewalk tonight, manage your affairs far away from here.

Indeed I managed my affairs; my friend Mahmoud Alshaer picked me up at ten o’clock at night, while I was negotiating with people to sleep on their sidewalk.

He told me over the phone: Go to Al-Salam Mosque in such-and-such area. There are displaced people sleeping in the mosque.

What horror!! Planes flying over my head, and the streets are empty. It is very late, and I have to carry my things and go to a mosque to sleep!!

Anyway . . . I laid down near the door and slept like a wolf, with one eye open. Oh, how long is the night!!

On this night of terror, I heard the most beautiful call to prayer in my life at dawn. This is the literal and figurative meaning of the call to prayer; a confirmation that the night is indeed over, and a confirmation of a new dawn, and approaching daylight.

On the steps of the ablution area, I ran into my poet friend, Saed Al-Swairki, who is a correspondent for the news channel “Russia Today.” We consoled each other, then went down the stairs, shaking our heads without talking.

I prayed at dawn with the people, waited for the first sound of a donkey’s hooves on the asphalt, and immediately left the mosque into the unknown.

Tonight, I finally got a carpentry workshop to sleep in. Thank God.

I slept on the ground, among the wood, and thought a lot about Noah:

Oh Noah

From all sides, water came

And you did not drown

Oh Noah

Like you, with wood alone

I will survive the fire.

January 17, 2024

Rubble!

The poet says:

The poem must emerge from under the rubble.

Poetry says:

Oh how romantic

Oh what a gentle, dreamy word!

The poem says:

I have to push the tons of crumbling concrete on my head

Iron armored ceilings

And columns stained with heads and organs

I have to move crying walls

adorned with the saddest verses of God.

Asil Yaghi

A writer from Gaza and a refugee from the village of al-Masmiyya al-Kabira. She studied law and her writing has been published by Gaza Stories.

It no longer distresses me that the world has paid no attention to a lifetime of deaths in Gaza. I am unaffected. It no longer pains me that we are here, in an area of 360 km², knowing nothing more about life than how to survive it—people often fail to do even that. My dreams no longer pester me to fulfil them; there are no more dreams in the first place. Not so long ago, I decided to stop punishing myself for not being able to achieve what I wanted in this city, offered to us like a prize, that we are expected to love and die for.

It doesn’t enrage me that we were born in a matchbox that opens and closes at both ends. It no longer drives me crazy that Gaza—and dying in it—is our incontestable fate. The scenes of death and destruction no longer sadden me; the absence of worldly justice and the delay in divine justice no longer infuriate me. What angers, grieves and maddens me now is that they have chosen a weapon stronger than all the missiles and explosives they’ve hurled at us throughout our lives in Gaza. Is starving us their next tool of war?

The north is hungry, the south is hungry. The north is destitute, the south is delirious.

Has the occupier decided to play with the psyche of primal humankind, using hunger to displace us from our homes after all its failed plans to displace us?

Is the plan now to make Gaza unlivable?

What complicity is this that has sabotaged our lives and ended so many others?

What insanity is this that forces my family and I to think about how to get enough money to cross a concrete wall and then a desert, for the same price as a trip to the North Pole?

What exactly is being negotiated?

For how much longer will the world abandon us? And what world is this, with no power capable of restraining Israel?

How long will death continue laughing at us? One scenario after another . . .

And so many questions . . . No answers here.

Ahmed Mortaja

A writer born in 1996 in Gaza City. He studied psychology and was active in many cultural organizations in the city. He survived a bombardment that destroyed his home on October 28. He came out from under the rubble and continued writing.

29 October, 6:08 pm

Ahmed, coming out from under the rubble speaking to you.

The one who inhaled thousands of tons of dust . . . My color is gray (in case you needed to know) . . . The one who was unable to count his family members, split between the colors (of red and grey)—if you were able to see the colors anyway.

Colors here do not have the luxury of being chosen. Red: You are full of blood. Grey: You have just embraced your and your neighbors’ houses and stones, and came out breathing.

Ahmed, who witnessed death a bit ago, and his experience in psychological support failed to help him overcome the screaming of children and mothers.

My words could not assist me to formulate anything to say and put on children’s chests. In fact, I did not see anyone. I only knew they were alive, from their screams (a tip for you: always know your beloved ones’ screams, it is the only way you could recognize them, and know if they were alive or not).

I, Ahmed, hate all the dreams that I have. I no longer have beautiful familiar memories, no friends left to recognize, or a safe home to be in.

Ahmed, and I hate the world that cannot stop a war bigger than my heart and the hearts of children.

I am Ahmed, and I do not want to arrange this text, as I am in a hurry. I may not be able to publish it before another shell misses me, and both of us, the text and I, see the light.

24 November, 5:21 pm

The morning where goodness in the world ceased to exist.

I’m still alive.

I saw many of my friends and relatives die in front of me. First aid is just logic. In this way, I helped a child who was moaning of pain after the house next to us got bombed. After hours of logical first aid; Logic did not help the child, and he died, with many questions:

The first question: Why the war?

The second question: Until when this war?

Third: How many children does it take for the war to stop?

Fourth: What does normal life look like?

Fifth: Does the one who put us in war realize that our hearts are too small to bear it?

I could not help the child who was drowning in his questions, and his question marks injured my right shoulder, in particular.

All my possible ways of survival have become very limited. My memory does not stop collecting the screams of children, and my heart is crying over everything, and does not stop.

Those wearing the lavish suits in the world . . . You know yourselves very well . . . Leave us alone, drowning in our questions, and there is absolutely no need to invent new ones. And stop the war.

20 October, 7:52 pm

I’ve reached a point where I’m afraid of myself.

I don’t feel anything, the news don’t surprise me nor get my attention.

I started reading the numbers in such a normal way. I lie a lot when asked (How are you?). I do not care how I am.

I don’t care who writes about us and who doesn’t, what is the point of writing at all, when with every word, a friend falls?

The houses falling on our heads have become normal. The scenes of continuous displacement, I do not give much thought about, nor plan for.

Days have become so alike, and I do not recall the last time I laughed. Were we laughing before, or were we pretending to do so, just in front of ourselves?

The sight of bombing houses does not sadden me . . . In fact I feel ashamed that our house is still standing despite being partly damaged.

Now I am afraid of myself, not of the war.

Now I have totally realized that this war has killed everything in us, even our feelings of surprise and sadness.

Hind Joudah

Poet from Al-Breij Refugee Camp, Gaza. She published two collections of poems entitled Someone Always Leaves and No Sugar in the City.

Oct. 30, 2023

What does it mean to be a poet in times of war?

It means apologizing . . .

extensively apologizing

to the burnt trees

to the nestless birds

to the crushed homes

to the long cracks along the streets

to the pale faced children before and after death

to the faces of every sad or murdered mother

What does it mean to be safe in times of war?

It means being ashamed . . .

of your smile

of having warmth

of your clean clothes

of your idle hours

of your yawning

of your cup of coffee

of your restful sleep

of having alive loved ones

of having a full stomach

of having available water

of having clean water

of being able to shower

And for incidentally being alive!

Oh God,

I don’t want to be poet in times of war

Nov. 2, 2023

I will blow on the wounds of Gaza

and sing her to sleep!

I will cover her ears so she can’t hear the sounds of planes nor missiles

I will place her children in the chamber of my heart and lock them in,

I will connect them to my umbilical cord!

I will make Gaza sleep

I promise her that

I promise you!

I haven’t gone mad yet,

I am dreaming

Notes

1. Passages Through Genocide notes that “all volunteers and translators working on this initiative remain anonymous as a sign of respect and humility to our people in Gaza.”
2. Hiba Abu Nada, “I Grant You Refuge,” trans. Huda Fakhreddine, Protean Magazine, November 3, 2023, https://proteanmag.com/2023/11/03/i-grant-you-refuge/.
3. “Beesan Nateel,” Passages Through Genocide, https://www.gazapassages.com/beesan-nateel/english.
4. “Al-Meqdad Jameel Meqdad,” Passages Through Genocide, https://www.gazapassages.com/almeqdad-jameel-meqdad/english.
5. “Ebraheem Matar,” Passages Through Genocide, https://www.gazapassages.com/ebraheem-matar/english.
6. “Noor Aldeen Hajjaj,” Passages Through Genocide, https://www.gazapassages.com/noor-aldeen-hajjaj/english.
7. “Mahmoud Jouda,” Passages Through Genocide, https://www.gazapassages.com/mahmoud-jouda/english.

Political Education Document