‘Oxygen is Not for the Dead’:
The Life and Legacy of Hiba Abu Nada
By Lama Obeid
Hiba Abu Nada (June 24, 1991 – October 20, 2023) was a Palestinian poet and writer who was martyred thirteen days after the start of the genocide in Gaza. She was killed in an Israeli airstrike while displaced from her home.
Hiba was born in Saudi Arabia and later moved with her family to Gaza, where they lived under refugee status. They originally hailed from the village of Beit Jirja, located 15.5 km away from Gaza.
She began her academic journey in the sciences, earning a bachelor’s degree in biochemistry from the Islamic University of Gaza. She then obtained a diploma in education, driven by her passion for working with children and sparking their creativity. At the time of her martyrdom, she was preparing her master’s thesis in clinical nutrition at Al-Azhar University.
Just a few years before her martyrdom, Hiba published her debut novel, الأكسجين ليس للموتى (Oxygen is not for the Dead). It was first released in 2017 by the Department of Culture in Sharjah, UAE, and later republished by Dar Diwan in Kuwait in 2021. In an updated edition by the Department of Culture in Sharjah, the title page now bears the word “Martyr” before Hiba’s name. The following note appears on the next page:
“The martyred writer ascended during the 2023 war on Gaza. She was waiting for the second edition of her book from Kuwait.”
Although her book traveled across countries and appeared at various book fairs, Hiba herself could not leave Gaza. During a book fair in Doha, Qatar, she expressed her dismay on her Twitter account:
“My book has been to several book fairs, and I have not been to even one. How far away we are from the world in Gaza, and how many places are empty of us. Friends in Doha, my novel is now your guest.”
In her novel, Hiba explores the theme of justice by interweaving the lived experiences of Palestinians under occupation with the broader context of the Arab Spring, which erupted across several Arab countries in 2011. Her work portrays the strong will of both the Palestinian and Arab peoples and their longing for a dignified life. She exposes the oppression they face at the hands of the Israeli occupation as well as the authoritarian regimes across the Arab world, who commit atrocities and suppress basic human rights to maintain power. Through the character of Adam, her protagonist, Hiba invites the reader on a journey in search of freedom and justice.
Oxygen is not for the Dead won second place in the Novel category in the 20th Annual Sharjah Award for Arab Creativity in 2017. She also won first place, in a separate award, in the Short Story category in Palestine. After her martyrdom, she was posthumously awarded the Anwar Salman Award.
In addition to her novel, Hiba also contributed to three anthologies: أبجدية القيد الأخير (Alphabets of the Last Manacle), العصف المأكول (The Eaten Straw), and شاعر غزة (The Poet of Gaza). She also wrote several poems, two of which—”Not Just Passing” and “Refuge“— have been translated by Huda Fakhreddine.
Her novel has yet to be translated into other languages, but now is the time to honor Hiba Abu Nada, to honor her words, and to begin translating her literary legacy, for her life was stolen while she still had so much to say, so much to write. Let us take her remaining words and share them in different tongues, let her words travel and break the very borders she dreamed of breaking in life, to become free.
Translated excerpt from Oxygen is not for the Dead from pages 21—23:
One of the things I cannot hide is my admiration of the Minister of Interior’s character—his stern, European features, befitting a high-ranking military man, and his voice that seemed to have traveled from a faraway land on a warm breeze. He was a man of few words, as if he drew each word from a secret vault. He was never one for speeches or ceremonies.
I also admired his discipline. He always wore two watches—one on his wrist, the other in his pocket—both frozen at the same moment in time. And then there was the black eye patch over his left eye, modestly hidden behind a curtain of white hair, tucked neatly behind his ear. Every time I laid eyes on his hair, I’d ask myself: “Why was I born bald?”
I used to wish I had only one eye, so much so that, during my teenage years, I once tried to poke one of my eyes out. But I chickened out. And eventually, I convinced myself that only courage earns such medals of honor.
Every time I saw him, I sank deeper into admiration, so deeply that my body forgot the water that once shaped its clay.
“Son, you can consider this a medal of honor,” the minister said, as he handed me the work transfer papers after catching me staring. I offered a polite apology and left quickly. The next day, my wife threw me a party to celebrate the promotion.
It was a raucous celebration. I invited and gathered every scattered leaf from the family tree, every one of my friends. She oversaw the decorating of the hall: ordered a hundred helium balloons to float like clouds across the ceiling, while light from the chandeliers danced through them, casting golden reflections on the gilded white marble floors. High heels clicked joyfully across the floor all evening.
At the entrance, she had a red velvet carpet rolled out, splitting the hall in two, from the door to the table of honor. There, we seated the Ministers of Justice and Interior, the head of intelligence, my family, and all the others.
While the servants were tending to guests and guiding them to their tables, she greeted me at the entrance. She wore a white dress of natural silk, with a silver lace train that hugged her body and trailed behind her wherever she moved. When she ordered the dress from Paris, she also ordered that enchanting bottle of cologne, which she gifted to me at the end of the celebration, after the guests had emptied their bottles and licked the glasses and plates clean.
At the end of the evening, she stood up with the grace of a queen and announced her husband’s promotion to the guests: He is now the Director of the General Investigations Division at the Intelligence Services. The room erupted in applause, tongues fluttering like birds with whistles and cheers.
I, meanwhile, smiled through a pang in my chest, nodded with the weight of it all, and kept my gaze fixed on my enchantress.