Building Gaza with Words

Here I am, sitting in the strange hush of this ceasefire we all prayed for, wondering what to make of it. We begged for the bombs to stop raining down, for the skies over Gaza to quit roaring with death, giving the innocent a chance to breathe. But now that it’s here, this fragile quiet, I’m left asking: Is this for real? Has the killing actually stopped, or is it just hiding, waiting in the shadows? The ceasefire feels like a shaky sunrise, promising light but leaving me squinting into the fog.

What do I even want from this? Honestly, I’m not sure. I’m not out here asking for miracles—like the martyrs walking back into our lives, their voices filling the air with laughter again. I’m not begging for houses to pull themselves up from the rubble, or for tanks to roll backwards out of northern Gaza, leaving flowers instead of craters. I don’t expect borders to fling open, letting aid pour in like a river, or for the wounded to hop on planes to hospitals far away. I’m not demanding that broken families piece themselves back together, or that kids run laughing to schools that aren’t bombed-out shells, or that universities and bookshops and bakeries spring back to life, their shelves full of stories and bread. Those aren’t wild dreams, but they feel like chasing stars through a smoky night.

What could mess up this ceasefire’s quiet glow? Maybe it’s the ache of neighbors gone, wiped out in the dark, their empty spaces stinging like open cuts. Or the weight of family stuck—my nephews, my nieces, trapped in the ruins of Tal al-Zaatar up north, their small faces flashing in my mind. My own heart’s caught under what’s left of my house, leaving me helpless to pull my sisters, my kin, or even myself out of this mess. This ceasefire we wanted so bad—it’s less a victory and more a pause, making the screams we’ve buried impossible to ignore.

A poem’s not gonna hold this ceasefire together. It’s not some magic shield saving lives. Words can’t block bullets or rebuild what’s gone—they’re just whispers, speaking their own truth, like a half-done sketch, a night that hasn’t quite started, a sea calling you to jump in. But poems keep going, shouting even when the world out there doesn’t get our silence, thinking we’ve given up, or tunes out our cries, calling them noise. So why not just say it straight? What’s there to be scared of? What’s not? We’re done with blurry lines, lost in the haze of what’s been. The sky’s not gonna talk for us anymore. The kids in Jabalia aren’t coming back to their moms, and those moms aren’t coming back to their kids. All we’ve got is learning to live with the quiet of dead cities, breathing in the smoke of what’s next, walking streets turned to gravel.

We’ve gotta figure out this new world: stepping light on broken roads, picking up the dry leaves of trees that used to shade us, listening to birds singing far off—or close by—carrying bits of hope in their songs. I tell myself, and anyone else hurting, to come back—to who you are deep down. Reach for those nephews, those nieces, those flickers of light in the wreckage. Hold close the family we’ve lost, their shadows still with us. Face the dark, the grief that chokes, and the light, that stubborn spark that won’t quit. Keep moving, even if the ground shakes. Write it down, let the words spill out like they’re all you’ve got. Yell if you need to, loud enough to wake the world. Show the scars you’ve kept hidden, let them tell the story of what’s been done—the lives stolen, the dreams crushed.

Hope this ceasefire sticks, like a thin thread holding things together. Out of the ashes, let’s build a new Gaza—not just with bricks, but with words, rising up from the quiet like a wave. If poems can’t save us, they can at least keep our story alive, and maybe that’s enough to plant something new—where scars turn to stories, and silence hums with the promise of starting again.