“Hunger’s Silence, Language’s Struggle,” Mohammed Moussa
Each day, we rise and pretend there’s something new to say, as if our words could carve a path through the despair, as if they could feed the starving or cradle the abandoned. But to whom are we speaking? For what purpose?
“Writing Poetry in the Time of Genocide,” Mohammed Moussa
After almost two years of relentless attacks on our city, it feels like the poems we create could be our final messages. Some write on scraps of paper or in notebooks while being displaced, moving from one place to another, often forgetting what we wrote in our homes before fleeing. Our poetry can be lost, just like us, at any moment in Gaza.
I find writing helps when I'm overwhelmed by this half-life, this genocide; it's like the words are stuck in my throat, and I just have to get them out.
“I Miss My Old Life,” Taqwa al-Wawi
I miss those days, before we carried the weight of names we no longer call. When “loss” was just a word in a story, not the story itself. But most of all, I miss the girl I was—the one who smiled without fear, whose laughter didn’t falter when windows rattled. She dreamed with arms wide open, wore hope like a favorite color, a flame that never flickered.