Ramadan Kareem, ya Gaza
“Gaza does not resemble herself in Ramadan.”
“Gaza does not resemble herself in Ramadan.”
Refaat Al Areer had set the scene, declaring, “If I must die,” and Alaa Al Qatarawi’s sorrow metamorphosed into a butterfly that perseveres. She writes, “If I die, my butterfly does not die.”
The people named in this poem are the writers, painters, and musicians martyred in the genocide. They are only a few of the many artists who were martyred in the past two years of war against Gaza.
“I survived—came out of yesterday / alive, carried out on the shoulders / of the wind.”
Salah and Abdullah’s small bookshop in Nuseirat is a testament to the power of literature. A model of Palestinian endurance.
“Under siege, time is stolen piece by piece, and language shrinks to match the narrow space it is allowed. People abandon long sentences because every additional word must justify the power it consumes, the battery it drains, the risk it takes in that particular minute.”
Three months ago, ArabLit contributor Asmaa Dwaima lost her sister, who was martyred along with her little son. This poem is for her sister, Rewaa.
It was October 20, 2023 when poet, novelist, and educator Heba Abu Nada was killed by an Israeli airstrike. She was 32. Here, her sister Somaia strings together time, place, and memory.
“Press your body to the sea— / it comes out cool, unharmed— / and let tears move across your hidden grief.”