“Too Young to Spell Death”: Three poems by Hala al-Khatib

Our Last Goodbye

You told me “wait for me.”
You said you would return
and you did—
in a white bag,
as a body I can’t even see,
without the soul I adored.

Where is my beloved?
I want to see you,
touch your face,
give you one last kiss.

I want to warm you,
hold you,
and hide you inside my heart
or hide myself in you.

I touch the shroud.
I want to feel your hand,
leave a kiss on your engagement ring,
as I used to.
But where is your hand?

I want to smell your scent.
It means you’re here with me
and I’m protected.
Instead I smell your blood.

I lie on your shroud,
whispering:
“When will you come home?”
The food is ready,
and the children are waiting.

Tell me my love,
how could anyone do this to you?
Did you feel it?
Did you call my name as you always did?

If I knew,
I would never have let you go.
I would have hugged you longer,
tighter,
felt your heartbeats against mine,
told you how much I love you.

My love, why are you silent?
Are you truly never coming back?
If yes,
take my heart with you,
and wait for me.
I won’t be long.

Shattered Serenity

I sit alone on my rooftop at sunset
gazing at the sky.
Cold breezes kiss my face,
once gentle, once poetic.

For a moment
I feel like the whole universe is mine
and the sky, my sky
is holding me so tightly,
and softly,
making me euphoric.

But before my fantasy could
last five minutes,
as I sing Fairouz’s “A Little House in Canada,”
imagining a new life
and drowning with its beauty,
an explosion interrupts me,
shattering my song
and turning my clear sky
into a somber grey.

And without warning
it reminds me
that no matter how hard I try
to fly away, far away,
even only with my imagination,
this voice will come after me
and pull me back to my reality.

I can hear it whispering to me
that fear will still be my companion,
that being here alone,
at this hour,
is not serenity
but danger.

Too Young to Spell Death

What cruel right do they
steal everything we own?
Home, safety, souls! A
father buries his little son,
and a son too young to
spell “death” buries his
family! He is calling, and
the only answer is the
war’s voice. Standing in
line to get a small food
plate, when once he did
not know what hunger
meant. Speaking to his
family through the sky, he
wonders: did I not bury
them in a grave, how did
they go up? He is sleeping
alone, disappointed, and
instead of sweet dreams,
the echoes of bombing
chase him.

Hala al-Khatib is an English literature student from Gaza. She says: “My words are my voice, for myself and for the world, with no limits. Through my writing, I aim to share a piece of the life of a Gaza girl, living through hardship but with boundless ambition. I believe that words can be a bridge between me and the world, and through stories, I reveal the truth of what I live, beyond any embellishment or minimization.”

Artwork: “The Last Prayer” by Safia Latif.