‘Writing in Gaza’: by Yousef el-Qedra

Yousef el-Qedra is a poet and playwright in Gaza; you can read more of his work in translation in Hayden’s Ferry, Asymptote, The Dreaming Machine, Springhouse, Raseef22, and elsewhere.

Writing in Gaza

An Act of Existence in the Shadows of War

By Yousef el-Qedra

In Gaza, writing is not a luxury to be practiced at the margins of daily life; rather, it is an existential act that plunges you into the details of this difficult moment. Here, at the point where life and death meet, writing is a way to resist fading away, an attempt to capture what is lost in the chaotic noise of explosions and loss. Words, when written in Gaza, come out soaked in blood, drenched in nostalgia, and filled with the horror that hides behind every door.

Writing as a battle against annihilation

In Gaza, writing is not just a means of recording events; it is a shout launched into the face of time, as time tries to swallow the city and its people. The author does not write about war as a separate event, but rather lives it as their own inevitable fate, and every text is an attempt to push back the waves of annihilation, to protect a moment from being wiped away. Words here are a hidden weapon, a tool that resists the oblivion that follows in the wake of every fallen shell, every ruined home.

Writing is not just a record of destruction, but an act of counter-creation. The writer reshapes the city with words, rebuilds the alleys destroyed by bombs, etches on paper the faces of those who have so suddenly disappeared. Each text carries within it this continuous effort to preserve something of the spirit of the place, despite all attempts to root it out.

Between memory and the burning present

In Gaza, writing is inseparable from memory. Texts forcefully summon the past to confront a present that burns before our eyes. The writer moves between times, collecting the fragments of stories that have been shattered, then rearranges them in an attempt to understand what is happening now. Time in Gaza does not run in a straight line, but instead a spiral, in which memories overlap with the present, making writing a never-ending search and research.

Here, the author does not write about the idea of tragedy; rather, they live it in every word. Each text carries the smell of smoke, the sound of people’s screams, of racing footfalls. Words are not an attempt to escape this reality, but a mirror that reflects it, in all its details, with all its pain.

Writing in the face of global silence

The outside world seems to be deaf, unable or unwilling to hear Gaza’s voice. And so, writing becomes a bridge that stretches out from the dark inside to an outside that claims forgetfulness. The writer realizes that their voice may not reach all the way across, but they insist on trying. The texts become windows that open onto this world, allowing the city to breathe a little, beyond the walls that suffocate it.

Writing in Gaza is not just a local act, but an attempt to impose the city’s presence on the map of the world. Words carry with them the faces of children who left too soon, the voices of mothers searching for their sons and daughters, and the echo of stories that don’t want to be forgotten. The writer here is not only a witness, but the bearer of a message, a voice for those who have none.

Writing as a sliver of hope

Despite all this darkness, writing in Gaza continues to carry a glimmer of hope. Words are not only a means of expressing pain, but an attempt to draw the contours of a different future. The writer digs into the depths of this tragedy to find what can be built upon it. The texts are filled with the scent of freedom, the freedom that seems so far away but is present in every letter.

Hope, in writing, does not come from ignoring reality. It comes from the insistence on confronting it. The writer in Gaza writes because they believe that words can change something, can light up even a small corner of this darkness. The texts become promises of a powerfully present future, even when written in the ink of pain.

Writing as a re-creation of the city

The city that Gazans write about is not the city we see on maps. The real Gaza exists in its stories, and in the alleyways that are still throbbing with life despite everything. The writer reshapes the city with their words, giving it faces, voices, names. Writing here is not just a depiction of place, but an act of re-creation, an attempt to keep the spirit of the city alive.

Every text carries a part of this spirit. Demolished alleys are rebuilt with words, the trees that were uprooted are planted again on paper. The writer refuses to let their city fall into oblivion; they try to give it another life through words.

Writing, internal exile, and the departed

Writing in Gaza is not only a reflection of physical reality, but also a mirror of internal conflicts. The writer lives in a state of internal exile, caught between the sense of belonging that binds them to this land and the desire to escape the relentless pain. Writing becomes a means of grappling with contradiction, of trying to find a balance between these states of belonging and detachment.

Internal exile makes writing sharper, more honest. Each text carries with it the constant struggle between the desire to survive and the insistence on escape. The writer finds in words a refuge from this contradiction, a space where they can be themselves, away from all constraints.

Writing in Gaza draws not only on the voice of the author, but also on the voices of those who have disappeared. These words revive those who have lost their voices, making them present once again. Words bear their souls, so they can speak again.

The writer becomes a mediator between life and death, between the present and the past. Texts carry the stories of those who have left, making them a part of the present, refusing to let them be forgotten. Writing here is not only a personal act, but a duty to those who can no longer speak.

Writing as a celebration of life

Despite everything, writing in Gaza remains a celebration of life. Words refuse to bow before death, refuse to surrender to oppression. Texts carry with them the contours of simple joys, of hopes that creep in amidst the devastation.

The writer does not write only about tragedy; they write about the ability to survive, about the insistence upon life. These words become a testimony to this ongoing challenge, to the amazing human ability to find meaning even in the darkest of times.

Translated by M Lynx Qualey

Yousef el-Qedra is a Palestinian poet born on June 3, 1983 in Khan Yunis, Gaza. He holds a Master’s in Literary Studies from the Institute of Arab Research and Studies in Cairo (2015), and a Bachelor’s in Arabic Language and Media from Al-Azhar University in Gaza (2005).

He worked as a project coordinator for theatre groups at the Culture and Free Thought Association in Khan Yunis between 2006 and 2010. He has published several poetry collections, most notably his 2014  توارى في التأويل  and دموعها تبكي الخرائب 2011, in addition to his 2013 trilogy وردة نبتت في النار. His works have been translated into English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Persian, and he has participated in many international literary events, including the Palestinian-Spanish Forum and the Free Poetry Forum in Cairo.