From a Palestinian Love Story: ‘This Stone is Mine’

This excerpt comes from pages 34–37 of Saga Hamdan’s 2024 debut novel This Stone is Mine (هذا الحجر لي), a story of love and loss between Gaza and Jenin. The story of Hazem and Salma begins in Gaza, where their shared passion for journalism first brought them together. When an assignment takes them to Jenin, they find themselves not only chronicling the stories of its people, but also deepening their own bond. Amid checkpoints, gunfire, and curfews, their love grows like a stubborn vine, nourished by both tenderness and resilience. Returning to Gaza, they face the tightening grip of the blockade and aggressions. Blending the personal with the collective, the novel is as much about a love story as it is about a homeland under siege.

From ‘This Stone Is Mine’

By Saga Hamdan

Translated by Alaa Alqaisi

Uncle Abu Tareq insisted we stay the night at their place. Jenin Camp had drawn us in completely, despite its modest narrow streets, its people, its children. I kept feeling it was just like Gaza: in its soul, in its spirit, in its scent. Time slipped away from us until night fell, silent and dark. Just our luck, it happened to be the night of an escalation. We began to hear distant blasts and maneuvers. Uncle Abu Tareq was adamant: we were not to leave the camp after dark. I called Amjad to let him know. Only then did I learn that he and Suad hadn’t left either; they too were staying at a neighbor’s house, just like us.

Uncle Abu Tareq lived with his wife and three children: Tareq, Youssef, and Sarah. Their home didn’t catch your eye because it had lavish decor or ornate walls or plush sofas. No, it stunned you with a rare beauty that was born of simplicity: soft classical tones, carefully arranged cushions, the lingering scent of incense. It was the kind of house made beautiful by its people, not by the money poured into turning it into an “upscale” home.

It was beautiful because of Aunt Umm Tareq, who gave us her love in the form of food—so many dishes I felt she’d spent her life perfecting and refining them until they surpassed anything you’d find in a restaurant. I still believe that the families of refugee camps and working-class neighborhoods are the happiest on earth, and far more generous than the so-called cultured elite, the bourgeoisie with their hollow grace. The simpler a person is, the more joyful they are, the more giving.

The situation got worse. By morning, tear gas and stun grenades rained down in the tight alleyways. We shut the windows. Umm Tareq handed us damp cloths to breathe through. Things were getting serious, and it dawned on us that escaping under these conditions would take longer than we’d hoped. We hadn’t yet caught our breath from the siege in Gaza, and here came Jenin’s siege, its mouth wide open, as if it had spotted a fresh meal. But this was nothing new. We were used to being torn apart.

Almost everyone in the camp went on with their lives—just not beyond their doorsteps. Uncle Abu Tareq sat in his small office-lounge, glasses on, reading newspapers. I had no idea where he’d found them or what year they belonged to. As though the explosions outside were merely the passing calls of street vendors, and this was the perfect time to read global news. Even after three wars and countless “episodes,” our hearts still jumped at every blast. Maybe because the camp was so small, the alleys so narrow, the homes pressed up against each other, so that one bomb at the entrance to the camp could shake the whole place.

Aunt Umm Tareq would spend long hours in the kitchen, cooking generous meals. It would have been like she was following the Arab tradition of honoring guests, except she didn’t stop at three days, the way the custom says. Instead, she showered us with everything she had, every single day. We told her it wasn’t necessary, but she listened only when Salma insisted on helping in the kitchen, refusing to let her make another dish, afraid the pantry would empty before the siege lifted. What startled us was how calmly they treated it all. As if the situation were deeply familiar, not worth considering, let alone stopping time and life for.

At first, we didn’t take the escalation seriously, either. Every evening there were gatherings at Abu Tareq’s house. I was amazed by how people could laugh so effortlessly under such conditions. They joked, sometimes danced the dabkeh, and lived every inch of life under bullets and home raids. They’d sneak over to visit us despite the curfew, for no clear reason, maybe out of defiance or a thirst for adventure. I was astonished by their ability to confront life and its cruelties, and by how they regarded the situation—extremely dangerous in my view—as something ordinary, just a part of life that must be lived through. If they had stopped the clock every time a war or siege came, they would have lived only a few days. Yet they counted these days of death and war as part of life.

From the first moment, I was drawn to Tareq: his fierce, youthful energy and the way he made everyone laugh with silly jokes and sarcastic remarks about their bitter reality, without the slightest effort. He reminded me of my brother, Yazan. There was something of Yazan’s mischief in him. By the next day, we were roommates. After a long, playful debate over who would take the bed and who would sleep on the floor, I claimed that sleeping on the ground was better for my back and healthier overall, that I was used to it. He didn’t believe me, but to end the debate, he agreed to join me on the floor, saying it was safer than high places in times like these. I agreed. There was something true in what he said. Maybe we both believed that the earth is our resting place, and to it we belong. We are of it and to it. It makes no sense to drift far from it, even by a few inches.

Saga Hamdan is a Palestinian author and social health researcher from Gaza, currently based in the UK. Her work centers on memory, survival, and life under siege and genocide, and has received multiple local and international literary awards.

Alaa Alqaisi is a Palestinian translator, writer, and researcher from Gaza, deeply passionate about literature, language, and the power of storytelling to bridge cultures and bear witness to lived realities.