^{Important note: Before you begin reading, please excuse me for not being a very organized person in my thoughts. However, I am trying my best to convey the scene as it is, and to make my message clear to you as you read it.}

^{Some of you might get lost between the lines here, but in any case, I hope the idea reaches you.}

On the evening of the 24th August 2026, at 06:50 p.m.

I was in Dair Al Balah visiting my family. While I was in the car on my way back home, I heard a massive explosion that shook the city. Its smoke covered the sky. I saw it while I was still a little distance away from the site of the explosion, but my heart began beating harder and I started trembling. I could see the smoke and hear the sound as if they were almost surrounding my family’s home. My anxiety grew.

I immediately called them, and they told me that they were all safe. I heard the voice of my nephew, Khaled. He was crying and trembling with fear because of the enormous sound. Mama told me that shrapnel had reached them.

This historic mosque, built by Hajj Mohammed Abu Salim in 1951 as the first historic mosque in Dair Al Balah and the Central Area, has fallen silent. For the first time in 75 years, the call to prayer no longer rises from it.

As its shattered stones fall, a part of the history inherited by one of the old and prominent families of Dair Al Balah, the Abu Salim family, falls with them.

With it, memories of childhood fall away: the Eid takbirs, the arrival of Ramadan, the Hijri New Year, and the Prophet’s birthday.

This is a sad day that I never wish to keep in my memory.

This mosque is an old historic landmark.

I entered it twice in my life. I remember the first time very clearly, even though I was only six years old (in the year 2000) At the time, UNRWA had transferred all the students of Al Mazra’a Elementary School after the Israeli army took control of the area surrounding Salah Al Din Street. There was a barrier made of barrels and sandbags separating us from them. They were taking control of the entire surrounding area and constantly frightening us with gunfire in order to force people to leave, and then expand the Kfar Darom settlement to bring in more settlers.

We all went there while I was in my first days of elementary school, in first grade, to continue our education in the government schools in the center of the city, because there were not enough UNRWA schools available at the time.

My school was only a few steps away from this mosque. When I first went to school there, I was not yet familiar with the road. I was very young and could easily get lost.

I remember that baba accompanied me during the first week, and I told him that I had memorized the way.

But one day, I got lost and no longer knew how to get home. I was very frightened until someone found me on the road and realized that I was lost. I only told him my name.

He took me to the mosque.

The very same old mosque.

It became my refuge, and I stayed there until he contacted my father, about an hour later. Baba came and took me home from inside the mosque.

When I was inside the mosque, I was not afraid. I remember finding something strange there.

It was one of those unusual wooden shoes.

I remember putting them on. I was amazed by their ringing sound and by how difficult it was to walk in them.

I later learned that they were called a qobqab (قُبقاب)

The second time I entered this mosque was about ten years ago. There was an organized trip, and we visited this old historic landmark in the city.

Every time I looked out from our balcony, I would see that minaret standing tall, with the most beautiful voice of a muezzin in Dair Al Balah rising from it.

I used to watch the eucalyptus and palm trees in the wide piece of land behind our house. I would ask myself, ((Will the day ever come when those trees grow tall enough to cover that minaret?))

I grew older..

And those trees grew with me.

But they never covered that minaret, nor did they ever reach it, simply because, sadly, those trees were cut down.

Two years ago, all the beautiful eucalyptus trees were cut down when Israel prevented cooking gas from entering, and people began destroying the environment and cutting down trees to obtain firewood for cooking.

It was a real and painful environmental crisis.

I adored those trees.. I adored their scent whenever the sea breeze blew.

This land belonged to the Abu Salim family.. Our entire residential area was made up of land belonging to that family, and we bought our land from them.

After our grandparents were displaced during the Nakba in 1948…

By the way, we are not originally from Gaza. We are still displaced, ever since Israel expelled us from our lands and took our villages, homes, crops, and livestock from us.

This is what I learned from my grandmother.

They always called us displaced people.

And here we are now, all of us, displaced and repeatedly uprooted within our own homeland.

All of this because of Israel’s cursed obsession and sadism.

It was the song “Kalimat” by Majida El Roumi, a companion to my writing.

Merhaba…

I am a Palestinian poet, composer, and influencer from Gaza. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic. I create spontaneous melodies and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Subscribe now

Buy me coffee

O hills of Jerusalem, behold, Suleiman has departed..

Leaving his brush to tell the tale of this troubled land.

...

In every stone of your soil..

there lies a poem..

And in Suleiman’s paintings, the Nakba was embodied..

Revealing the blood that stained the earth.

...

Here passed the artist of the land, Suleiman..

Kindling from his colors a fire within the soil.

...

He painted the olive trees that the occupier envies..

so that his paintings would remain the story of our ancestors..

and of those who planted their roots in the earth..

revealing the treachery of those who built a wall upon its soil.

...

He painted the homeland upon the garments of its women..

And through embroidery..

he told the tale of Palestine, our beloved.

...

And he embodied Camel of Hardships upon our shoulders..

And there he is..

the young man carrying the heavy weight of the homeland.

...

Ya Suleiman, son of this earth, indeed we possess..

Through an artist’s brush..

a weapon against the passage of time.

...

If they uproot the olive trees…

we will preserve their roots.

And if they demolish a home…

we will build it again.

…

And if one day they say that Palestine has died..

We shall tell them: We are Palestinians..

And in our veins flow a thousand lives..

recited through the ages.

...

Your paintings, Suleiman, shall remain for us a covenant:

That we shall never sell our land..

nor shall we surrender.

...

The ancient olive tree shall remain rooted in the earth..

And from among the ruins..

a dawn shall rise again for us.

...

And peace upon the art that never bowed

To wind..

nor storm..

nor occupier.

The poem in its Arabic version

ألا يا ربى القدس ها قد غادرك سليمان

ترك ريشته لتروي حكاية البلاد الحائر

...

في كل حجر من ثراك قصيدة..

وفي رسومات سليمان..

جسدت النكبة..

وفضحت دماء الثرى

...

فها هنا مر فنان البلاد.. سليمان

فأوقد من ألوانه للتراب نارا

...

رسم الزيتون الذي منه المحتل يغار

لتبقى رسوماته حكاية أجدادنا..

ومن غرسوا في الأرض جذرا..

وكشف لؤم من بنوا فوق تربته.. جدارا

...

رسم البلاد على ثياب نسائها..

وروى بالتطريز حكاية فلسطيننا الهوى

...

وجسد جمل المحامل فوق أكتافنا..

وها هو الفتى..

يحمل الوطن الثقلا

...

أيا سليمان، يا ابن الأرض، ها نحن لنا

بريشة فنان على طول الدهر سلاحا

...

إذا اقتلعوا الزيتون..

أبقينا جذوره.

وإن هدموا بيتا..

بينيناه مجددا

…

وإن قيل يوما قد ماتت فلسطين..

قلنا لهم نحن الفلسطينيون في عروقنا..

تنبت ألف حياة تتلى

...

ستبقى رسوماتك يا سليمان..

عهدا لنا على ألا نبيع أرضنا..

ولا نستسلم.

...

سيبقى الزيتون القديم قابعا في الأرض

وسيبعث من بين الركام لنا..

فجرا.

...

وسلام على الفن الذي لم ينحن..

لا لريح..

ولا لعاصفة..

ولا لمحتلا.

When I began writing the first lines of this poem, I felt sad, and I even cried.

I cried because of the extent to which we have been oppressed within our own homeland for decades, or even for an entire century.

I was saddened by the passing of the artist Suleiman Mansour tonight.

But as I delved deeper into his paintings, I realized just how much stronger we are than the occupier and than all the powers in this world.

Stronger through our spirit, our love, our paintings, our poems, and our songs.

Art is the strongest weapon on this planet, and the most beautiful.

I remembered myself, as I began once again to call myself, with pride, a Palestinian poet, born from the heart of the rubble, like the olive tree.

I remembered my brother, the painter Yasser Dahlan, who devoted an entire lifetime to his paintings and colors, carrying the message of Suleiman Mansour, Ismail Shammout, and other brilliant Palestinian artists who portrayed Palestine and its ancient heritage through their simple brushstrokes.

That delicate, tiny brush, which, if we were to place it beside the occupier’s rifle, would still be stronger, more beautiful, and more deeply rooted in history.

I dedicate this poem to the soul of the artist dearest to my heart, Suleiman Mansour.. Allah yerhamo.

Merhaba…

I am a Palestinian poet, composer, and influencer from Gaza. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic. I create spontaneous melodies and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Subscribe now

Buy me coffee

“Please Help Save My Baby Khadija

My name is Islam , and I’m writing this with a heavy heart.

My baby girl, Khadija, has been struggling to breathe since the day she was born.

From the moment she came into this world, she’s been in and out of hospitals. Every time I take her in, the doctors tell me the same thing — she has lung infections. She stays in the hospital for 10 to 15 days, fighting to breathe with oxygen and medicine.”

This is what Islam wrote a year ago through her fundraising campaign.

However, she has not received any donations through it for the past six months, and she is struggling to receive funds. That is why my sister told her about me, as she is her neighbor in Khan Younis.

She reached out to me asking for help, so that I could share her story here, put it before your eyes, and make her voice heard in the hope that someone among you might be able to help her.

After speaking with her, I see in Islam a hardworking, devoted, and patient mother.

Islam is a young mother in her forties who has endured so much throughout her life after building the small family that so many of us dream of.

She has four children. Two of them are healthy, Alhamdulillah, while two of them, Khadija and Moeen, suffer from almost the same condition: malnutrition, difficulty breathing, and delayed growth.

Her husband, Khamis, is a poor man who suffers from heart disease. His condition has worsened during the years of genocide, under the immense burden of exhaustion and fatigue, the lack of healthcare in Gaza, and the severe shortage of available medication.

My sister would constantly see what Islam was going through. She knew how difficult her situation was and told me about this woman. She told her about me, explaining that I help some medical cases with whatever payments and donations I am able to provide, and Islam hoped that I might support her, even if only with $20 a month.

Imagine the amount of pain. Imagine the extent of the need.

How much she wishes for even something so simple.

And by the way, this is what more than 80% of families in Gaza are experiencing today.. not only Islam’s family.

People have been deprived of the most basic necessities of life and healthcare, and they need even the smallest amount of support to help them endure under this genocide that we are still living through to this day.

After deciding to speak with Islam today and realizing that I was late in reaching out to her, after she explained her condition and the situation of her family to me, I was deeply pained by the enormous amount of helplessness this woman has been facing for so many years.

I did not want to limit my support for Islam to $50 a month, as I do with other patients.

A sum that all of us would consider very, very small.

Instead, I wanted to raise her voice to you, because I am not able to do more than that myself.

Perhaps some of you could check on her from time to time, even with $150–200 a month. And I assure you that I will contribute alongside you with $50 every month from the payments I receive for my poems to this family.

Let us assume that this will be enough, even though it will never truly be enough. But I do not want to place a burden on you.

And I hope that no one feels any pressure whatsoever.

A heartfelt prayer from you would be enough as well.

And sharing her story.. believe me, would be the most beautiful support you could offer if you are unable to donate.

Perhaps it will reach someone who is able to help them.

Islam and her family’s needs:

• Medical treatment and healthcare: Islam’s children and husband need continuous medical follow up, medical consultations, and the necessary examinations, especially because of the breathing difficulties, malnutrition, and delayed growth.

• Medication: The family needs medications and treatments that Islam struggles to provide regularly, as well as breathing nebulizer treatments almost every day, especially because of her husband Khamis’s heart condition, which has caused him to collapse in the streets and repeatedly lose consciousness. He also needs medical care and treatment.

By the way, Islam spends more than five days a week inside hospitals and has been doing so for years.

• Food for the children: Khadija and Moeen suffer from malnutrition and need appropriate food that can help them fight weakness and improve their growth.

• Basic food for the family: The family needs a continuous supply of basic food and essential necessities, amid the difficult circumstances, lack of stability, and scarcity of resources, and their inability to afford meat, fresh fruits, vegetables, and also clothing.

• Ongoing monthly support: Even a small amount such as $150–200 per month could help Islam cover part of the costs of treatment, food, and medical appointments, although this amount would not cover all of the family’s needs.

• Prayers and sharing: If donating is not possible, praying for Islam, her children, and her husband, and sharing their story, can also be a real form of help. Perhaps their story will reach someone who is able to provide the support they need.

Finally...

We hope that anyone who is able to take responsibility for supporting Islam and her family with this amount on a permanent monthly basis will let me know in the comments or through a private message. That way, when I see their name on the donation list, I will know that their donation is specifically intended for Islam and her family, without needing to keep promoting this article again and again. It will also help me know that this support is specifically for her, because this fund includes many different cases and families, in addition to Hassan’s cooking project.

So please just mention your name in a comment or send me a message.

I am very distracted and forgetful these days, and I am finding it difficult to manage the fund lately, so please be understanding.

Islam is a mother fighting for her children amid harsh circumstances that leave her with very few choices.

Today, I donated to her and her family for this month, and I hope you will join me in giving.

Please remember that my donation this month is only a small contribution from me, but for them, it could mean medicine, a meal, or even just one moment of safety.

If you are able to, please join me in supporting them, even with a small amount. We do not all need to give a lot.. please, never feel any pressure at all. When we come together, even a little, even just $10 from each of us, can make a real difference in their lives.

Let’s not leave Islam and her family alone.

Support Islam and her children

Your support helps me and dozens of grieving families in Gaza.

Shukran for taking the time to read.

And by the way, thanks to your support, dear community, our campaign goal has been reached for the third time in a row. Thanks to your unwavering support, we rise again and rebuild our community. In the midst of siege, hunger, killing, and destruction, you are our brothers and sisters.. We love you Wallah.

With love,

Shahad

Merhaba…

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Subscribe now

I dance with her beneath a hail of bullets…

I hold her waist above the ruins of our home..

with the flames of passion burning in her eyes.

…

I breathe in her fragrance…

I long for a sip from the wine of her lips..

For she is but a breeze when she touches me..

her fingers pass through mine like the feeling of safety..

like a butterfly settling upon my heart.

…

I dance with her slender body…

Forgive my intoxication, beautiful woman..

I linger on the sight of your hair as the rain soaks it..

like clouds scattering their pearls over a night of silk.

…

What is dancing to me if she is not spring?

What is night to me if she is not my wakefulness?

Why should the moon be created at all..

when she alone… is my moon?

…

I gaze into her eyes…

and verses of poetry settle in my chest..

with no end to their ability to describe her.

…

If only the rain would never cease…

and if only the night would linger on for us..

so I could remain intoxicated by her body..

lost in her shy lashes..

lulled into drowsiness by the drops of rain upon them.

…

That delicate, beautiful woman…

I draw her waist closer to me..

just as I grip my trigger and the stone in my hand.

…

Her eyes are enamored with the clouds…

while I am utterly captivated..

by the beauty of her features..

and the tenderness of her beauty.

…

Hazel eyes…

with sleepy lashes..

and a smile drawn upon her lips..

as I dance with her..

as though we were the last two lovers left on this earth.

The poem in its Arabic version

أراقصها تحت وابل الرصاص…

أمسك خصرها فوق بيتنا المهدم..

ولهيب الغرام في عينيها.

...

أتنفس عطرها…

أتوق لرشفة من خمر شفتيها..

فما هي إلا نسمة حين تلمسني..

تمر أصابعها بأصابعي مر الأمان..

مثل فراشة حطت على قلبي.

...

أراقص جسدها النحيف…

اعذري ثمالتي أيتها المرأة الحسناء..

أطيل نظري إلى شعرك حين يبلله المطر..

مثل الغمام نثر لؤلؤه فوق ليل من حرير.

...

فما لي والرقصِ إن لم تكن هيَ الربيع…

وما لي والليل إن لم تكن هي سهري

؟

فلا داعي ليخلق القمر..

ألا وإنما هي وحدها.. قمري.

...

أحدق بعينها…

فتسكن في صدري أبيات شعر..

لا تعرف لوصفها نهاية.

...

ألا ليت المطر لا ينقضي…

ويا ليت الليل يطول علينا..

فأبقى ثملا بجسدها..

هائم برموشها الخجلى..

وقد أنعستها قطرات المطر.

...

تلك الحسناء الرقيقة…

أشد خصرها نحوي..

كما أشد بكفي على زنادي والحجر..

...

عيناها مغرمتان بالسحب…

وأنا في حسن ملامحها..

ورقة جمالها..

مولع

...

عينان عسليتان…

برمش ناعس..

وابتسامة مرسومة على الشفتين..

بينما أراقصها..

وكأننا على هذه الأرض.. ٱخر عاشقين.

I was inspired to write this poem by two things. The first came when I looked back through the photos I had taken a year and two years ago, and came across a phrase written by a lover in Gaza on a ruined wall: “War and Love.”

I wrote these lines in just a few minutes, especially after listening to these melodies. My fingers began to weave verses about the romance of the masked resistance fighter; The one whose eyes may burn with the spark of vengeance for his homeland.. and tenderness for his beautiful beloved, who waits for him every evening.

He returns to her carrying his rifle, and she rushes into his arms, holding him as though he were her only homeland.

^{A collection of French melodies and songs kept me company through the night and my poem.}

You will love these two romantic poems

My Homeland’s War Without Your Love...

The Spoiled Beauty from Afar

Merhaba…

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Subscribe now

Buy me coffee

This is what we wake up to every morning in Gaza.

We fell asleep to bursts of explosive gunfire striking the walls of our homes, and now we wake up to this ethnic cleansing that has been ongoing not only for three years, but for an entire century.

I open my eyes now to the sound of bullets whizzing overhead, fired by Israeli forces toward the west, where displaced families' tents are located.

In what should be a peaceful morning, welcoming a new day with the chirping of birds, our day instead begins with fear and uncertainty, while thousands of families sleep beneath pieces of fabric that protect them neither from the scorching sun nor from bullets.

Please keep us and everyone in your prayers for safety. 🤲💔

I do not want to die a little every day

I want to live

I want not to be afraid

I want to be safe under my olive tree

oxygen is leaving my stories,

but my heartbeats push love forward again

let us breathe love

let us… not die a little every day.

Don’t hesitate to take a look at those poems. They will open your eyes to so much

I Die a Little Every Day

What Cannot Be Said Is Seen Here..

Here, My Homeland Hurts Me

Merhaba…

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. And this time, I won’t ask you to upgrade your subscription, or even to donate the price of a cup of coffee.

But please, share our stories and our voices.

Gaza’s Voice Has Become a Burden to the Algorithm

Substack’s algorithm seems to change from time to time, almost on a weekly basis, and we all notice it. It also seems that Substack’s policies can severely restrict the reach of our accounts and the number of views our posts receive whenever we publish something about Gaza. Sometimes, accounts are automatically removed or banned, and the number of subscribers is reduced.

So please, continue to share my voice and the voices of other writers from Gaza.

Please share this article with your community.

They either want us to publish meaningless content, or they want to silence our voices.

Share Shahad Dahlan

Shukran

O flowers of the tents…

do you not see me?

There you lie…

scattered at the entrances…

while I linger on the roadside..

prolonging my wait.

...

You appear through the seams of the tents…

a touch of enchantment…

and grace among stone and dust.

...

The wind has scattered you across the stones…

the remnants of homes…

the jealousy of night…

and the fading of day.

...

Habibi walks between love and longing…

hiding the fragrance of blossoms…

in the palms of his hands.

...

He gathers the flowers, not out of pride…

but because he sees in them my promise…

and the home to which we shall return.

...

He brings them close to my heart…

as though love itself restores…

the season of green to my soul.

...

And those two eyes tell me…

without a single word…

that even when life closes in around us…

we are a people destined for triumph.

...

For love never loses its way…

even when the flowers…

fall asleep upon the rubble.

...

For beauty still has a home in Gaza…

and the moon still…

comes each night to court the tents.

The Arabic version of the poem

ألا يا زهور الخيام…

أما ترينني؟

تتيهين ملقاة عند مداخل الخيام،

وأطيل أنا على أرصفة الدرب انتظاري؟

...

تطلين من شقوق الخيام كأنما

سحر ورونق بين صخر وغبار

...

وقد نثرتك الريح فوق حجارة

بقايا ديار…

وانطفاء نهار

...

يمضي حبيبي بين عشق وغرام

ويخفي على كفيه…

عطر أزهار

...

يقطف الورود، لا زهوا…

ولكن لأنه…

يرى فيها عهدي، وموعد داري

...

ويأتي بها نحو قلبي…

كأنما الهوى…

يعيد إلى قلبي زمان اخضرار

...

فتخبرني تلك العينين بأننا

وإن ضاقت بنا الحياة

نحن أهل انتصار

...

فلا الغرام ضال طريقه

ولو نامت الورود…

فوق الركام

...

فلا زال للجمال مكان في غزة

ولا زال القمر…

يغازل الخيام.

I wrote some of these lines when habibi returned a few days ago, carrying a bouquet of flowers in his hands. The truth is, I’m afraid to smell roses because I might start sneezing... haha. Yet I still love it when he surprises me with them.

When I asked him where he had found them, he said, “I stole them.”

Haha. “From where?” I asked.

They were growing from inside the fence of the tents in the camp.. And it reached out, spilling onto the pavement.

...

Today, as I was walking along my way, I suddenly saw these wildflowers on the edges of the roads, surrounded by rubble. And yet, they were still beautiful. They captivated me, and they were what gave me the final words to complete this poem.

For in Gaza...

there is a night and a moon embracing the tents, and flowers spreading across the rubble.

We are a people of contrasts, but love has overwhelmed everything.

Here is another little piece of beauty that I wrote. Let your eyes wander through it for a while

My land blooms

Moon Above the Tents

Hiba Tawaji’s song “Ilé w Elak El Sama” accompanied my poem and my night.

There is another way to support a writer from Gaza: by offering a symbolic "cup of coffee" through my GoFundMe donation page.

Buy me coffee

Do not hesitate to support us, as we rely on you greatly during this hardship we are going through.

We are also part of those contradictions we live with; we need to ask for your help, yet we always feel shy and embarrassed to do so.

Shukran to everyone who stands with us, and to every heart that helps ease the weight of these difficult days.

In the darkest of nights..

a moon caresses the sky.

Its light reaches the earth

And pierces the worn fabric of the tents.

…

Beloved Gaza…

you have lost your homes..

And today…

tents have overtaken you.

Tents that have become a dwelling after palaces.

…

Your homes were taken..

Your children were killed..

Your buildings were destroyed..

And your trees were uprooted.

...

No olive trees remain..

Nor cacti, nor laurels.

Yet your moon still shines..

And your breeze overflows with the burning kisses of love.

...

How hideous is the devastation..

they left behind..

How cruel is the deprivation..

they have sown

The sky belongs to you..

O most beautiful of the beautiful.

You alone are the lady of all who are enchanting.

...

Let beauty bow to you in shame and reverence..

And let the whole world be ashamed before you.

The Arabic version of the poem

في أحلك الليل…

قمر يداعب سماء.

يقتحم بنوره الثرى..

ويشق قماش الخيام البالي.

…

غزة الحبيبة…

فقدت البيوت

واليوم تغزوها خيام..

خيام أمست مقاما بعد القصور.

...

لقد سلبت الديار..

قتل الصغار..

دمر العقار..

واقتلعت الأشجار.

...

لا زيتون بقى…

ولا صبار..

ولا غار.

ولا زال قمرك ساطعا..

ونسيمك يفيض بقبلات الحب اللهاب.

...

ما أقبح ما تركوه من خراب..

وما أقسى ما زرعوه من حرمان.

السماء لك يا جميلة الجميلات..

ووحدك أنت سيدة الفاتنات.

...

لينحن لك الجمال خجلا وإجلال..

ولتخجل الدنيا بأكملها منك.

I wrote these lines a few days ago while sitting inside a tent.

It was my sister, Chef Raneen's tent. She had been displaced there only days earlier after her only daughter, Hala, narrowly survived an Israeli bullet that pierced the kitchen wall from the inside.

As I gazed at the moon, I noticed the outline of Palestine emerging from the folds of the tent's worn fabric, while the moonlight quietly poured through its threads.

It was a scene of profound beauty and serenity.

For I see her in everything, even in my veins.

In that moment, I thought of my dear friend, , who was looking at the very same moon that night. This moon has always brought us together despite the distance between us. We share its photographs, songs, cups of coffee, and sometimes even a cigarette

This poem is not only about the moon. It is about home, friendship, and a love that still finds its way through the worn fabric of displacement tents.

If these words happen to meet your eyes, and they leave even the smallest trace in your heart, please leave me a 🧡 in the comments. It would be the most meaningful support you could offer a writer who is still trying to find a path toward love despite the siege, the devastation, and the scarcity of breath.

^{Nilüfer's "Son Arzum" was the soundtrack to this poem.}

So your eyes may see this too. I do not write the news; I write poetry, because I know that news is quickly forgotten, while a poem may find its way into your heart and linger there for a long time. A poem often succeeds where headlines fail.. and while headlines are soon forgotten, poetry endures.

I Am Longing and in Love

I Die a Little Every Day

There is another way to support a writer from Gaza: by offering a symbolic "cup of coffee" through my GoFundMe donation page.

We have always made it a priority to direct any surplus from your donations and subscriptions to those who need it most. Thanks to your generosity, we have been able to support many families in Gaza. Most recently, because of your support, I was able to add 4 more families to receive at least a small share of your kindness.

At this time, I am especially committed to supporting patients who need to purchase medication and continue their treatment sessions, because they truly cannot afford to wait.

Your support also helps sustain habibi Chef Hassan's kitchen, where he strives to serve plates of love by providing meat meals to families who can no longer afford them.

I must admit that asking for support is never easy for me, and I often feel a sense of embarrassment each time I write these words. But I know that behind them are faces waiting, children longing for this food just as I longed for it during the famine, and patients who are now living through the hardest period of their lives in Gaza, with medicines becoming increasingly scarce and the storage facilities in hospitals deliberately targeted by bombardment.

That is why I kindly ask for your understanding. Every contribution, no matter how small, can make a real difference in all of our lives today.

Shukran for your time.

Buy me coffee

Oh, this homeland…

Oh, how much it hurts me…

I don’t know… does this homeland still love me,

or has it decided to crush me and betray me?

...

When I look out from my window

and see a crowd of funerals among the alleys of the houses…

here, my homeland hurts me.

...

In these stubborn men

who insist on walking toward certain death,

returning in coffins of corpses…

here, my homeland hurts me.

...

In the longing of mothers as they stuff bread with fear and worry,

and hide their prayers in the pockets of their beloved children

before they go into the unknown…

believe me, here my homeland hurts me.

...

In the news broadcasts…

when the dead become nothing but numbers

and it is said of the martyr, “He fell, and that is the end of it”…

here, my homeland hurts me.

...

In my own face, when I look into the mirror,

I examine the details of my small features

that have now begun to sigh from misery and despair.

When I see my maturity split open by fear,

my years fading away before my eyes,

my dreams covered in ashes collapsing,

and my passion bound in chains…

Here, my homeland does not merely hurt me…

it shatters me in every cell of my being.

The poem in the Arabic version

يا لهذا الوطن…

ٱٱٱه كم يؤلمني..

لا أدري.. هل ما زال هذا الوطن يحبني،

أم أنه قرر أن يسحقني ويخونني؟

حين أطل من نافذتي…

لأرى حشدا من الجنازات بين زقاق المنازل

هنا وطني يؤلمني

...

في هؤلاء الرجال العنيدون

الذين يصرون للذهاب إلى موت محتوم

عائدون بصناديق تحمل جثامينهم

هنا يؤلمني وطني

...

في لهفة الأمهات وهن يحشين الخبز بالخوف والقلق

ويخبئن دعائهن في جيوب فلذات أكبادهن

قبل أن يذهبوا إلى المجهول

صدقني هنا يؤلمني وطني

...

في نشرة الأخبار حين يتساوى الموتى بالأرقام

ويقال عن الشهيد سقط وانتهى الأمر

هنا يؤلمني وطني

...

في وجهي حين أنظر للمرٱه

أدقق في تفاصيل ملامحي الصغيرة

التي باتت تتنهد من البؤس واليأس

حين أرى نضجي مشقوقا بالخوف

سنوات عمري وهي تذبل أمامي

حين تتحطم أحلامي التي كساها الرماد

وشغفي المكبل بالسلاسل

هنا، لا يكتفي وطني بأن يؤلمني… بل يحطمني في كل خلية من كياني

This is a journal entry from my memoirs for August 11, 2025.

With my pen, I recorded the hidden feelings and events woven into the details of that day.

The only beautiful thing about this sorrowful day… was that I was finally able to sleep while gazing at the moon…

I don’t know… I felt as though I was hiding in its light, escaping from all this darkness surrounding me.

BUT…

this war is determined to turn me into a gloomy person, drowning…

one who is struck by waves endlessly, relentlessly, every time he tries to catch his breath.

And as I write these words now, a martyr passed by me…

I am reposting this elegy that I wrote after the martyrdom of our departed and beloved Mahmoud, who went out in search of a mere piece of bread and returned as a martyr.

He has left us and is gone from us forever.

On the twenty-eighth of July, that was the last time his eyes saw the sky and colors.

Allah yerhamak ya Mahmoud.

Read this story written by his brother

A Journey of Hunger That Ended in Loss

Merhaba…

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Subscribe now

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When Life Is Besieged Before the Land Itself Is Besieged

A neighbor of mine traveled to Egypt to receive treatment, just two weeks after a medical mistake occurred during his surgery.

Meanwhile, there are thousands of patients, including cancer patients, who have completed all their procedures and paperwork, yet they have been waiting for a long time for nothing more than permission to travel to save their lives.

What is most painful is that this is happening at the same time that groups of citizens are leaving every week or two to migrate to the Netherlands and other countries.

Well… I think I have started to understand the picture. Have you understood it too? Or I wish I understood nothing?

Who is responsible for this chaos? Is it Israel alone? Or are there unknown people controlling the fates of people here? Or is the responsibility shared between the occupation, internal chaos, and the absence of oversight?

Gaza cannot bear more chaos. People’s lives are not a game in their hands, and they are not decisions that are granted to some and denied to others without explanation.

We need clarity, accountability, oversight, and a system that protects the patient’s right and the human right to life and dignity.

If things continue like this without accountability or supervision, Gaza will not recover; it will sink deeper into pain and chaos. And all of this serves Israel’s interest in weakening the people of Gaza and gaining more and more control over the land.

By the way, the yellow line is now only 300 meters away, and it will embrace me!!!

The killing does not stop.

Innocent people are dying every hour.

So what is the fate then??!

Slow death.

When the System Fails and Lives Are Lost

I was going to write a detailed article about this, but I will stop here.

I do not want to expose myself to any risks, nor do I want to blame people whose identities I do not know exactly.

But have you ever wondered why Israel has recently begun targeting members of the civilian police, security forces, and those responsible for maintaining order, even though they are not involved in any military activity or resistance?

Perhaps the goal is not only to weaken institutions responsible for maintaining order, but also to create a vacuum that makes people’s lives more chaotic and vulnerable.

For months, signs of a more dangerous project have begun to appear; a project aimed at leaving society without protection, then filling this vacuum with forces, militias, and gangs that impose their control over us, control the details of our lives, and turn our daily existence into an endless hell.

Life here is still extremely, extremely difficult beyond description. Our lives have even become harder after the announcement of the false ceasefire, after we had hoped for something different.

We are still trapped between fear, loss, hunger, and the loss of control over our own fate, which has become unknown.

And today, Gaza is not only facing death; it is facing the danger of having its right to manage its own life with dignity stolen from it, and of losing the right for human beings there to be the ones who make decisions about their lives, rather than victims of chaos imposed upon them from all directions.

A Large Prison with No Escape, and Lives Slowly Being Drained Away

There is overwhelming chaos here, a complete absence of safety, especially regarding healthcare.

Please, do not forget us. Do something that may save us from this genocide.

They are holding us in a large prison and preventing all supplies from reaching us.

Years have passed while we have been dying slowly.

Please, do something.

Enough.

I have written other articles here; take a look at them if you would like.

Hunger continues, medicine is missing

Opportunity Education and Treatment

What Cannot Be Said Is Seen Here

Shukran for reading

^Merhaba…

^{I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.}

^{I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.}

Subscribe now

Support the patients whom I support

Sleep, ya habibiii,

in the embrace of the breeze,

...

so that the angels of the Most Merciful

may sing you the lullaby of slumber.

...

For no mother remains to sing you the evening song,

and no father returns to you carrying bread.

...

O wound of Gaza,

why have you today grown accustomed to cruelty?

...

Leaving behind an orphaned child,

with stillness resting upon his eyelashes.

...

turning his gaze among the dust,

asking the air: where has the one who disappeared gone?

...

For no mother calls out to him,

and no father answers the call.

The poem in the Arabic version

نم يا حبيبي..

بين أحضان الهوا

...

لتنشدك ملائك الرحمن..

لحن الغفا

...

فلا أم ترتل لك أغنية المسا

ولا أب يعود لك حامل الخبزا

...

أيا جرح غزة…

ما بالك اليوم قد ألفت الجفا؟

وتركت طفل يتيم ساكن الرمشا

...

يقلب طرفه بين الغبار،

ويسأل الهوا.. أين من اختفى؟

...

فلا أم تناديه..

ولا أب يجيب الندا.

The sole survivor lost his dad, his mom, and his sister tonight. He lost everything that meant the world to him.

They say he ((survived)) but how can someone survive after all of this?

He was sleeping in his mom's arms, and now he is alone, not yet understanding what has happened to him.!!!

I wrote these words quickly; they rush from me onto the paper, but they stumble with a slow, deadly weight before the horror of this helplessness that overwhelms us… Bombing after bombing, death, loss, tears, and cries of pain… And now, at this very moment as I write, I hear intense bombardment!!!

And even this helplessness can no longer find any space for itself… Not on paper, nor in our poems, nor in drawings, nor even in melodies.

Take a look at this elegy

A Habit After Death

^{The song “Catch Me When I Fall” by Aria Flux was the companion of my poem and my night.}

Merhaba…

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Buy me coffee

Elegy of a Suspended Heart

I turn my face along the road,

searching for someone to slap me.

For adaptation is nothing but a lie,

and my wounds I conceal...

...

And living in Gaza

is nothing but a habit after death.

...

If only I had known what it was to be lost,

even once.

If only I had walked with the drunkards,

passing through the blaze of my night,

and my eyes had never known attachment,

nor the turning back.

...

My breaths departed,

my stories were over,

and I left nothing behind

except that my heart

was with me…

yet it remains suspended in time.

...

The heart stopped.

The poem in its Arabic version

أقلب وجهي في الطريقِ

أبحث عن من يصفعني

فما التأقلم إلا كذبة

وجراحي أداري…

...

وما العيش في غزة

إلا عادة بعد موت

...

فيا ليتني عرفت الضياع مرة

ليتني مع السكارى

أمضي لهيب ليلي

ولا عرفت عيني التعلق واللفت.

...

رحلت أنفاسي

وانطفأت قصصي

وما تركت من شيء خلفي

ألا إنه قلبي

كان معي…

لكنه عالق الوقت.

...

توقف القلب.

A few quick lines I wrote while thinking of those four young women… the sisters who were killed by Israel, who departed together, leaving behind an emptiness and a grief that cannot be filled.

The martyrs: Taqwa, Yaqeen, Ihsan, and Iman Mohammed Mahmoud Shabana.

Four outstanding university students, carrying great dreams and studying different scientific fields. They were from the city of Rafah in the southern Gaza Strip. Their only “crime” was trying to survive amid endless displacement, yet their lives were targeted in AL Mawasi, Khan Younis, and they departed in cold blood.

Four sisters… four stories cut short before they could be completed.

They should have been carrying their graduation certificates, not having their names carried on lists of martyrs.

They should have been writing their research papers and pursuing their dreams, not having elegies written for them in our poems.

May Allah have mercy on Taqwa, Yaqeen, Ihsan, and Iman… and may their memories remain a light.

These were yesterday’s victims, and today it is Raghad Ashour. Who knows… perhaps tomorrow it will be me.

For this is Gaza, and this is what Israel is doing to us.

The song “Nilüfer - Böyle Ayrılık Olmaz” was my companion through the night and my poem.

Note: This is not the poem I started writing yesterday.

Take a look at this elegy

Khatoun.. Where Children Fall

Merhaba…

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. create spontaneous melodies, and tell stories. I strive to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Please support me so I can survive.

Buy me coffee

Come with me,

do not ask me about the roads,

for I do not know them.

I have no guide but a wind that lashes at me,

and with it, that anxiety

that dwells within my exile.

...

A stranger in my own land,

I confuse my left with my right,

like someone who lost his maps in childhood.

...

And indeed, the sea was the last beloved

my heart ever longed for,

before the scent of its water mingled with the smoke of war,

and the roar of its waves became

what Israel’s bombs had poured into it..

until the martyr fell asleep among the sea lanterns.

...

And since then…

no book has kept my loneliness company,

no poem has returned my soul to me,

no melody has translated the sighs within my heart.

...

Time has changed…

and place has turned its back on me.

Now I sit here

in a cursed tent.

And I burn alone.

...

How many battles will my life require?

I do not know.

But I know one thing…

Clouds are of no use

when the stars invade them.

The poem in its Arabic version

هيا بنا،

لا تسألني عن الطرق،

فأنا لا أعرفها.

وما لي دليل إلا ريح تعصف بي

ومعها ذلك القلق

الذي يسكن غربتي.

...

غريب في أرضي

أخلط يساري من يميني،

كمن أضاع خرائطه في طفولته.

...

ألا وإن البحر كان آخر معشوق هام به فؤادي

قبل أن تمتزج رائحة مائه بدخان الحرب،

ويغدو هدير أمواجه

بما سكبت إسرائيل من القنابل.

إلى أن نام الشهيد مع القناديل.

...

ومذاك...

ما آنست كتابا يؤنس وحشتي

ولا قصيدة ترد إلى روحي

ولا لحنا يترجم ما في القلب من ٱهات.

...

تبدل الزمان...

وتنكر المكان

الآن أجلس هنا

في خيمة ملعونة

ووحدي احترق.

...

كم معركة ستحتاجها حياتي؟

لا أعلم

لكنني أعلم شيئا واحدا...

لا جدوى من الغيوم

حين تغزوها النجوم.

I wrote these lines in response to words and feelings I wrote a year ago, when Israel bombed Al Baqa Café.. a beloved refuge for many people in Gaza.

But in these lines, I am not only describing my own feelings. I am describing the feelings of the two and a half million people who once lived here.. and whose number has now become… 💔

I do not know how many of us remain.

I dedicate this poem to the souls of the martyrs who were killed at Al Baqa Café.

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. and I tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

Your paid subscription helps me.. and helps some of those inside that cursed tent.. SURVIVE .

Just… try to do it.

Buy me coffee

^{This article contains a harsh and shocking image, and I do not apologize for publishing it.. but let it be known.}

Today's article tells the story of one of the innocent souls who was killed by the Israeli occupation decades ago.

I was supposed to be preparing a new poem in memory of the martyrs who were killed in the bombing of Al Baqa Café on the Gaza seashore last year.

But...

What compelled me to write this article and share this story was the image of the little infant girl who was killed yesterday in her mother's arms, her head split into two halves after a calculated double airstrike targeted tents sheltering displaced families in the city of Khan Younis. Her only "crime" was that she was a Palestinian child, asleep in her mom's embrace, living on her land and the land of her ancestors.

The image of this little girl will stay with us forever, just like Iman Hajo, Sam, Hind Rajab, Rouh Al Rouh, Sewar, Faris Odeh, Mohammed Al Durrah, and the tens of thousands of other child martyrs whose faces will continue to haunt the world, and whose stories will forever stand as testimony to the brutality of this occupation.

My message today proves that the Israeli occupation has not been committing massacres only since today, yesterday, or even since October 7, 2023.

Rather, it has been a skilled killer for more than 75 years.. especially when the victim is a Palestinian child. It takes a cruel pleasure in shedding their blood.

What sin has my people committed that they are still forced to offer the blood of their children as the price for all this violence, killing, and hatred?

What sin has my people committed that they continue to resist this sadistic occupier with all the strength and dignity they possess?

Will you say this is a war?

Nah, it is not a war.

As my friend once said,

If the infant Iman Hajo, who was killed by the Israeli army when she was only four months old, were still alive today, she would now be in her twenties.

But that never came to be because an Israeli airstrike killed this innocent little angel without the slightest sense of remorse or accountability.

Iman Hajo was killed while lying in her mom's arms.

Although many years have passed since the Israeli army killed that innocent infant, the same scene continues to repeat itself in the ongoing series of crimes committed against our Palestinian people in Gaza, the West Bank, and the occupied Palestinian territories.. especially against children.

In many cases, Israel's killing machine no longer targets just one or two members of a family; entire families have been wiped out, as happened in numerous crimes committed during the Israeli military assaults on the Gaza Strip since we ourselves were children, over the course of many decades.

On September 28, 2000, the Second Intifada erupted following the visit of then Likud leader Ariel Sharon to the site, triggering widespread demonstrations and confrontations with Israeli soldiers. As the events spread across Gaza, the West Bank, and occupied Jerusalem, the Israeli army escalated its policy of suppressing protesters and targeting civilians inside their homes through artillery shelling, Apache helicopter missiles, and live ammunition.

There is also the true story of one of our relatives, who was killed by Israel inside his own home during the Second Intifada after being shot.

Do you know why?

Or perhaps I should put it more formally, the way those politicians speak at their conferences...

Do you know what his conviction was? What crime he committed?

One of the soldiers asked whether anyone among them understood Hebrew.

Out of fear, everyone answered no.

When the soldiers said they were going to take the man's son prisoner, he stepped in front of them and tried to stop them.

They replied, "So you do understand what we're saying. You understand Hebrew."

They immediately pointed a rifle at his head and shot him dead in front of his wife and children.

This is only one scene among countless homes that were violated by their presence.

On May 7, 2001.. about seven months after the outbreak of the Second Intifada.. Susan Hajo was visiting her family in Khan Younis in the southern Gaza Strip after arriving from Dair Al Balah. At that time, the situation on the ground was marked by escalating violations committed by the Israeli army, which fired an artillery shell at the house where Susan and her infant daughter were inside.

Fragments from the shell struck both the mom and her daughter as the baby lay in her mom's lap. The infant was killed instantly after a piece of shrapnel entered through her back and exited through her abdomen. The mother was admitted to intensive care due to the severity of her injuries, along with other members of the family.

The killing of the infant shook the occupied Palestinian territories. Confrontations with the Israeli army intensified, and local as well as international media were filled with images and videos of baby Iman.

But...

Did anyone answer???!!!

Did anyone act?

Nah.. Absolutely not

Her dad wept as he bid farewell to his daughter in an atmosphere of overwhelming grief.

Six months before Iman's death, Israeli soldiers had already shot her dad in both legs while he was working in the West Bank.

The killing of baby Iman was not an isolated incident in the long record of crimes committed against Palestinian children. It continues to be repeated despite the many years that have passed since that crime shocked the world.. a world that still does nothing to stop this occupier.

Her killing also came after the execution of the child Mohammed Al Durrah in his father's arms, only two days after the outbreak of the Second Intifada. He had been trying to shelter behind his father near the former Netzarim Junction.

Read this article

Between September 2000 and February 2005, 700 children were killed by Israeli soldiers and settlers.. Now I will leave you all to reflect on how many children Israel has killed in Gaza alone since October 7, 2023, up until today, July 1, 2026.

Nah, this is not a war between us.

There is something fundamentally wrong with the equation they always use to describe it.

This is a genocide

that has been inflicted upon my Palestinian people for decades.. even dating back to the British Mandate.

But no matter what happens, no matter what they do, and no matter how many crimes they commit against this oppressed people, this land will remain Palestinian and belong to no one but the Palestinians.

Jerusalem will remain its eternal capital.

And, InshaAllah, the sun of freedom will rise soon.

Take a moment to read this article.

Sam Abu Haikal

A War Within "Us"

Our Enemy Is One

Sources:

New articles and stories have been added to document what the world has tried to ignore.

• And my own memory.. the memory of a human being who has lived through 32 years and 22 days of genocide, from the very moment he was born.

Shukran for taking the time to read.

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza, weaving pain into my poems and trying to make words into a voice that reaches the world. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. and I tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will.. Because my primary goal is to spread the message.. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.. and imagine that you are inviting me for a cup of coffee.

_{Important note: Before you begin reading, please excuse me for not being a very organized person in my thoughts. However, I am trying my best to convey the scene as it is, and to make my message clear to you as you read it.}

_{Some of you might get lost between the lines here, but in any case, I hope the idea reaches you… that the message comes across as it is, with all its confusion.}

Yesterday, I went on a trip to Dair Al Balah after many long days of locking myself inside the house.

It was a beautiful trip. I met my family and many faces I had missed. At the end of my trip, I met Majdi, that kind man who was my partner in one of the activities, and he is the father of the child Hassan.. most of you know them. If you don’t, you can read about him if you want. Click here

The good thing about all this is that he was very smiling and told us that Hassan has improved a lot since he returned to therapy sessions. He also gifted us some sweets he had prepared himself.

This is not the article I want to write. There are two important points I want to highlight here. Let’s call it:

“Between food abundance and the absence of medicine: an incomprehensible equation”

Habibi published a beautiful post today, highlighting an important point about what is happening and what we are experiencing on the ground in Gaza. Click here

Yeah, there is food in Gaza.

The markets are not completely empty, and some goods are still reaching vendors. But the real problem is not the presence of food, but the ability to access it.. meaning, to buy it.

Most people no longer have jobs, income, or even savings. As a result, thousands of families stand in front of food without even being able to touch it.

Meanwhile, what still reaches us are the same aid boxes that never change: the same rice, the same lentils, the same canned goods filled with preservatives. Months pass… even three years, and we are still receiving the same parcels.

Our bodies need a diverse diet. All of this has led to a real catastrophe, with many of us suffering from malnutrition. We need a dignified life, a healthy life.

The tragedy in Gaza today is not only the lack of food, but that people can see it in front of them and cannot afford to buy it.

If you want to read what I wrote when a “false ceasefire” was announced and food entered after months of famine, I am sharing it again today for the third time, because the situation has not changed at all.

But what about the patients??????????????

Every day, we witness before our eyes a new loss of health.. someone we love… from our families, our friends, or even our neighbors. It has reached the point where we are left in confusion…

I truly keep asking myself… why are diseases increasing in this way?! And all of this has worsened significantly during the years of genocide.

To the extent that I began to wonder: is it the lack of food? Or the food itself? Or is it that heavy air carried by years of continuous explosions and toxic materials that have filled our skies and lungs?

So many, many stories… so many people suffering.

Alright… today I will write about a young woman, for some reason I always feel as if I have met her before.

The researcher Khuloud Abu Samhoud… Maybe some of you have heard about her.

A young woman who dedicated years to science, earned her master’s and PhD, and devoted her life to research and knowledge. Today, she is facing a completely different battle.. CANCER.

A woman who once built a life has become unable to manage even its simplest daily details. And when she said she is no longer able to hold her small baby who is not yet eight months old, my tears fell. My heart broke for her… and here words come to a stop.

This girl can no longer receive treatment inside the Gaza Strip…

She is also standing in line, like thousands of other patients, waiting for a chance to receive treatment abroad.. just a chance for life.

Look at this video…

There is another story that left me shocked and saddened as well…

We can say it is closer, and even more painful.

I will show you here a short video of a medical student who is one of our relatives who was displaced to my family’s house. Many of you know him because I wrote about him and his twin brother in one of my posts.

This young man is one of the twins, Eid or Khairi, whom I honestly still cannot tell apart… anyway…

Alright…

In this short video, which was filmed just two months ago…

This young man is sitting at a café table, resting his head on it.

Do you know what he learned in that moment???

He learned that his mom also has cancer.

And it has affected her body to a great extent.

Just yesterday, when I went to my family’s house, she had received her second chemotherapy dose. Doctors also indicated the necessity of treating her in Egypt, but??????

We all fear that.

Every single day, this woman comes to my mind… I pray for her a lot.

What a kind woman she is.

This poor woman is the grandmother of our granddaughter Iman (the mom of her mom).

May Allah heal her and all the patients.

I really don’t know how we will be able to continue.

Life has grown tired of us before we even grew tired of it.

Read these two articles if you want.

This

And this

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. and I tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

Shukran for your time.

Hands bound… eyes blindfolded

the sun since his absence..

has become a grieving widow

lingering in sorrowful contemplation

of the distant horizon.

...

And that extended night…

has cast its curtains over him

and departed

while the wounded moon..

alone behind the hills..

remains

waiting

for the sunrise of freedom to break.

...

They besieged him…

surrounded the beating of his heart

leaving no passage for the sparkle of his eyes…

...

Alone he walks over the ruins of the city,

and the heart is caught

in the alleys of a sorrowful hospital

between the moaning of a sick child

the heartbeat of a wounded young man

and the trembling of a mother

at the gate of waiting

while in his hands the blood

of her martyred daughter flows.

...

They slaughtered the flowers

and sacrificed the fragrance of their scent.

Would that my poetry could show mercy,

but does space soften for it?

Or does it seize the heart with eternal sorrow?

…

There…

behind iron bars..

behind windows of nothingness..

far from the world’s gaze..

he lies the one who used to mend what wars had ruined.

…

Alone..

sorrowful..

and still the moon waits..

weeping behind grieving hills.

Even the air makes the trees ashamed..

and in longing for the return of Al Hussam..

they remain in waiting.

...

Did Al Hussam sin by being a doctor?

or is this an occupation that knows nothing..

but killing..

and violation against all free people?

...

Al Hussam will return..

for he was not created Palestinian

to be defeated by the night..

forever.

The original Arabic version of the poem… 𓂆

مكبل الأيدي.. معصوب المقل

الشمس منذ غيابه..

ثكلى حزينة تطيل تأمل

الأفق البعيد

وذاك الليل المطل..

ألقى فوقه أستاره وارتحل

والقمر الجريح..

الساكن وحده خلف التلال

منتظرا

أن تشرق شمس الحرية

...

حاصروه..

أحاطو بدقات قلبه

وما تركوا لبريق عينيه منفذا

...

وحيدا يسير فوق أنقاض المدينة

والفؤاد عالقا بين أزقة المشفى الحزينة

بين أنين طفل مريض

ودقات قلب شاب جريح

ورجفة أم عند باب الانتظار

بينما بين يديه يسيل دم ابنتها الشهيدة.

...

ذبحوا الورود وضحوا بعبق ريحها

فيا ليت شعري يرحم

فهل يرق له المدى؟

أم يستبيح القلب حزنا أبديا؟

...

هناك…

خلف قضبان الحديد..

خلف شبابيك العدم..

بعيدا عن مرأى العالم..

يقبع من كان يرمم ما أفسدته الحروب

...

وحيدا..

حزينا..

ولا زال القمر منتظرا

باكيا خلف التلال الحزين

ومن الهواء تستحي الأشجار

وفي لهفة عودة الحسام

هي في الانتظار

...

أذنب الحسام أنه طبيبا؟

أم أن هذا احتلالا

لا يعرف إلا قتلا واغتصابا

ضد كل الأحرار؟

...

سيعود الحسام..

فما خلق فلسطينيا

ليهزم أمام الليل..

إلى الأبد.

Today, it was Hiba Tawaji’s song “Min Elli Yekhtar” Is the Companion of My Poem.

There is a line in the song that says:

“You cannot imprison a bird in an iron cage. I want to fly; no one can take away my wings.”

This is my third poem addressing the issue of Palestinian prisoners, exhausted after many long decades behind the cursed bars of Israeli occupation prisons. Today, my poem touches on the case of Dr. Hussam Abu Safiya.

I hope these messages reach the world.. those who still still have space in their hearts to see, feel, and listen. I am here not skilled in shouting, but I am skilled in writing pain that turns into words.

And because poetry, despite its limitations, is my only way of expressing what screams cannot carry.

I ask you to share my poems as widely as possible.

Share them if you can.. perhaps something will move, perhaps something will change, and perhaps we will come one step closer to saving the Palestinian prisoners who have been sentenced to death by slow suffering.

مشاركة

Read this poem if you want

When They Arrest The Roses

Until When? And To Where?

Merhaba everyone, and to the new subscribers..

This is Shahad

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza, weaving pain into my poems and trying to make words into a voice that reaches the world. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. and I tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I need your support so that this voice can travel further, and so that the reality we live through can be heard. I hope my poems become a space where others can connect with our shared humanity through poetry, rather than through news reports.

Your presence as free subscribers means a great deal to me and is an honor. If you enjoy what I share and would like to support this space so it can continue and grow, your paid subscription would mean a lot to me.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will.. Because my primary goal is to spread the message.. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.. and imagine that you are inviting me for a cup of coffee.

And shukran to everyone who shared my poems in events and protests.. whether by posting the audio recording of me reciting it in my voice, in the Arabic version.. or by reading the English version themselves.

That honors me deeply, and it honors Palestine as well.

With all my love.

How can I write poetry

when this beauty has stolen the letters from me?

...

It is not I who chooses the words,

but this beauty itself

that writes me

and keeps watch over my mind every night,

and over all my senses.

...

So how can I compose a poem?

When I am no longer a poet,

but a lover

learning love from your eyes,

and drowning in love

until death.

كيف يمكنني أن أكتب شعرا

وقد سرق هذا الجمال الحروف مني؟

…

لست أنا من يختار الكلمات

بل هذا الجمال نفسه

هو من يكتبني..

ويسهر على عقلي كل ليلة

وكل حواسي.

…

فكيف لي أن أؤلف قصيدة؟

وأنا لست شاعرا الآن،

بل عاشق

يتعلم الحب من عينيك،

ويغرق في الحب حتى الممات

This was not the poem I intended to publish today. I had been preparing to share a political poem about the Palestinian prisoner, Dr. Hossam Abu Safiya.

But I don't know... poetry seems to be a mood, a state.. Umm yeah, that is what poetry is to me.

Because I wrote this poem in a single moment, while my eyes were lost in the beauty of the person sitting before me.

As for the other poem, stay tuned for it in the coming days.

The song I Found Happiness by Kelly Boesch and his eyes were the companions of my poem today and the source of my inspiration.

Read this poems if you want

My Homeland’s War Without Your Love

The Spoiled Beauty from Afar

I am a simple poet and influencer from Gaza.. I write genuine poetry.. political, national, and romantic.. and I tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

I have never placed my work behind a paywall, and I never will. But if you feel that my poems have touched you and are worthy of your support and appreciation, I would be deeply grateful If you upgrade.

This video I created today, set to the music of the late Lebanese artist George Al Rassi, does not need explanation as much as it needs a long silence in the face of the pain it carries.

Even the words I once believed could express everything now feel powerless. I truly don’t know what to write…!

Should I write about the nonstop bombing?

Or about children torn into pieces?

Or those who fall asleep hungry and crying?

Should I write about the pain of losing loved ones.. fathers, mothers, siblings, friends, and neighbors who have all become memories?

Or about patients who slowly die while waiting for treatment that never comes, when even medicine is no longer available to save them?

Should I write about children whose childhood was stolen.. years without education, without play, without safety?

Or about tiny premature babies who were never given a chance to live?

Should I write about the journeys of loss and death faced by young people behind aid trucks?

Or about the occupier’s amusement in hunting and humiliating them, forcing them to run toward American aid centers as if they were exhausted dogs rather than human beings?!

Should I even write about how we are forced to resort to donation campaigns just to survive?

To search for food, for medicine, for simple things that exist everywhere else, but here turn into a full struggle for survival?

And don’t try to convince me that this isn’t begging.

Should I write about the prisoners who have been subjected to violations in the occupation’s prisons for years and years?

Should I write about baba in exile, and how he has spent long years alone, far from us, hiding from settler attacks, wishing only to return and kiss his grandchildren whom he has never met?

Or should I write about myself.. my pain, my suffering, my despair, my sadness, and my dreams that have faded away?

Even speaking of absence, exile, distance from loved ones, and the constant fear of what is coming… all of this has become too heavy to fit into a single line or sentence in my notebook.

Perhaps that is why it is enough to simply watch the video, which I have already shortened, even leaving out scenes too painful to share.

It does not merely explain.. it compresses what words can no longer carry.

And if there is one final thing I want to say now, it is that the pain here in my Gaza is no longer something to be told… it is something to be seen, heard, felt.. and only cried over.

There is nothing left to say.

The genocide in Gaza must stop.

Now… read the poetry here if you want, it also explains much.

Read this

This

This

This

And this

Khalas salam

Shukran for reading, and I hope you will share this article so it can reach as many people as possible, and so they can understand what we are living through here in terms of pain, silence, and endless suffering.. And if something happens to me, all I ask is that you remember me.

That blonde girl,

Sitting beside the old mill,

And her flowing hair, asleep on her shoulder,

plays with the air however it pleases..

like a melody.

Whenever she turns her head

to watch the butterflies dancing above the petals...

...

I see her...

I see her running through the orchard,

between the orange trees,

dancing with the branches,

singing with the birds,

chasing butterflies.

There is no butterfly here but her.

I see no flower except her face.

Even the orchard grew confused by her beauty,

forgot what it was,

and settled for simply gazing at her.

...

Beautiful and elegant one,

You leave me bewildered.

Are you a butterfly?

Or an angel wandering the earth,

playing with the edges of leaves,

picking oranges...

And picking up my heart along with them.

...

I run within me

Whenever I see you

running through the orchard.

I become like a joyful child

when I see that pampered girl coming from afar,

drawing closer and closer,

holding flowers in her hands,

while one escapes

to settle upon her hair,

falls again,

and she catches it with her fingertips.

Aaahhh what is this...?

She is as delicate as tiny cocoons

swaying upon silk.

She touches the flowers..

How I wish I were a little bud right now,

or even a ring,

so she could wear me upon her finger

however she pleased.

...

She comes running,

closer and closer,

until at last she sighs within my embrace,

and I breathe in the fragrance of her hair,

the scent over which my heart has suffered and wandered.

No creature could ever smell a perfume this beautiful

and remain untouched by it.

Let me be the only one enchanted by that fragrance.

I would not even mind

becoming selfish in my love for her.

Her wide eyes belong to me.

Her sculpted body is mine.

And even in her hair... there is music.

A music no one knows how to hear

except me.

...

She draws near,

and her hair arrives before she does..

that hair which has exhausted the wind with its caresses.

It touches my cheek,

binds me within its longing.

Eyes before eyes...

And the heart in your hands,

unable to resist.

...

You imprison me with your smile,

and with a single eyelash

you close the world around me.

I lose myself in loving you.

You slay me with your tenderness,

until in the end

I become a captive between your lips.

Do you see that little hollow between her lips?

Well...

Let them bury me there.

...

I do not want freedom.

I will remain a prisoner within your senses.

I am not merely a lover..

I am blessed by this love.

And if love has a meaning,

it is this:

to lose myself in your slender body.

And if I am asked about freedom,

it is to remain within you,

not to return to myself.

So do not let my heart return without you,

for it was never truly mine.

It was only waiting to see you..

you alone...

You, beautiful and elegant one.

The poem in its Arabic version

تلك الشقراء

جالسة بجانب الطاحون

وشعرها المنسدل غافيا على كتفها

يتلاعب بالهواء كيفما يحلو له

مثل اللحن..

كلما تلفتت

لتراقب الفراشات وهي تتراقص فوق البتلات،

…

أراها...

أراها تركض في البستان

بين أشجار البرتقال

ترقص مع الأغصان

تغني مع العصافير

تلاحق الفراشات

لا فراشة هنا سواها

لا أرى زهرة عدا وجهها

حتى البستان ارتبك من جمالها

نسي من يكون

واكتفى بأن ينظر إليها.

...

أيتها الجميلة الأنيقة

احترت فيك

أفراشة أنت؟

أم أنك ملاكا يرنو في الأرض

يلعب بحواف الأوراق

تلتقطين البرتقالات..

وتلتقطين قلبي معها

...

اركض بداخلي

كلما رأيتك

تركضين في البستان.

أصبح كالطفل مبتهجا

حين أرى تلك المدللة قادمة من بعيد

تقترب شيئا فشيئا

تحمل أزهارا في يديها

وواحدة هاربة

لتستقر على شعرها

تسقط مجددا

وتمسكها بأصابعها

ما هذا...؟

إنها ناعمة مثل الشرنقات الصغيرة

التي تترنح فوق الحرير

تلمس الأزهار،

ليتني برعم صغير الٱن

أو ليتني حتى خاتما،

تلبسني في إصبع يدها كما تشاء.

...

تأتي راكضة

تقترب أكثر فأكثر

لتتنهد أخيرا في أحضاني

إلى أن أشتم رحيق شعرها

الذي هام به قلبي معذبا

لا يمكن لمخلوق أن يشتم عطرا بهذا الجمال

ولا يسمح لأحد بذلك.

لأغرم بذاك العطر وحدي

لا مانع عندي حتى،

بأن اصبح أنانيا في عشقها

عينيها الواسعتين لي

جسدها المفتول ملكي

وحتى في شعرها.. موسيقى.

لا يجيد سماعها أحدا..

سواي أنا.

...

تقترب مني

ويسبقها شعرها

شعرها الذي أتعب الهواء من مداعبته

ليلمس وجنتي

يقيدني في هفوته

العيون أمام العيون…

والقلب بين يديك

لا يقاوم.

...

تسجنينني بابتسامتك

وتغلقين علي العالمَ برمش واحد،

أهيم حبا بك

تقتلينني بدلالك

حتى أصبح في النهاية

أسيرا بين شفتيك

أترون تلك الحفرة الصغيرة بين شفتيها؟

حسنا..

ليدفنونني هناك.

...

لا أريد حرية

سأبقى أسيرا داخل حواسك

أنا لست عاشقا فقط…

بل مبجلا بهذا الحب،

وإن كان للحب معنى

فهو هذا…

أن أضيع في جسدك النحيل

وإن سئلت عن الحرية…

فهي أن أبقى فيك،

لا أن أعود مني.

فلا تتركي قلبي يعود دونك

فهو لم يكن يوما لي

بل كان ينتظر أن يراك أنت

أنت فقط...

أيتها الجميلة الأنيقة.

I wrote this poem while recalling the faces of my grandmother and grandfather, before the Nakba uprooted them from their land.

My grandmother used to tell me that their hearts met there, among the orange and apple orchards.

Love, in every place and time, is a deep story.. something alive, with trees, shade, and the scent of ripe fruit.

Then came the sudden departure, in the form of a cruel occupier who seized the land, trying to erase what cannot be erased. Yet their story remained there, alone among the orchards.

And I still write.. not to restore what was lost, but to give it another form of existence… in words.

I don’t want freedom; I will remain a prisoner in poetry, haha…

This is another romantic poem… you will like it

I also want to note that there is a poetic line I quoted that is not my own. It was a phrase I loved and kept in my mind for years, and I felt it fit perfectly into my poem today.

“أترون تلك الحفرة الصغيرة بين شفتيها؟

حسنا..

ليدفنونني هناك.”

The song “Mustafa Qamar – Esma’ni” was the companion to my poem.

Merhaba.. This is Shahad

A Palestinian poet, writer, and influencer, striving through words to build a bridge of humanity between people everywhere, and to reshape awareness on the foundations of love, justice, and dignity..

And believing that humanity is the only language everyone can understand.

I weave pain into my poems, trying to make words a voice that reaches the world. Instead of news, I write real poetry and tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

Shukran to everyone who reads, listens, and shares this voice.

Your presence as free subscribers means a lot to me and is an honor. If you enjoy what I offer and wish to support this community so it can continue and grow, your paid subscription would mean a great deal to me.. It helps me pay my monthly internet bills so I can continue staying in touch with you here.. and helps my family survive.

You can also choose to support my loved ones here, through this fund that provides assistance to many of the most vulnerable cases and helps supply the necessary medications for those who need them most.

Every contribution, no matter how small, can mean a safer life, less pain, and a new chance to continue for those facing extremely difficult circumstances.

Buy me coffee

This time we are trying to prepare small surprises for the children instead of traditional Eid gifts, because cash is still not available in the Gaza Strip.

The children here are still carrying the disappointment of Eid… I saw it with my own eyes in their small faces last Eid. We felt helpless because we had nothing to place in their hands after greetings and hugs.

Even when we send “Eidiya عيدية” to their families through transfer apps, something still feels missing in their hearts.

A child does not understand “Eidiya” as numbers on a screen… they know it as something placed in their small hand, something they can hold with joy, and through which they feel that Eid has truly arrived.

We ourselves were like that when we were children… a small coin in our hands was enough to make the world feel beautiful and safe.

So this time we tried to create something that resembles Eid money for them, even if only a little… something that brings back that sparkle to their eyes, the sparkle we are trying so hard not to lose amid this exhaustion.

Tomorrow is Eid Al Adha, and once again there will be no sacrifice here in Gaza… but there is a small blessing that fills the space and replaces everything: Inga.

This Eid is simple and different, but still real enough to make me feel grateful. Having Inga here makes the days lighter.

Well, I definitely won’t be sacrificing her haha.

Umm.. Inga, Hassan, and I wish you all a blessed Eid Al Adha. May Allah bring it back to you with peace, joy, and reassurance.

Today is the Day of Arafah… and tomorrow is Eid

And indeed…

This morning I was happy, tidying the house and watching Inga sleep for 72 hours a day, and suddenly I stopped cleaning and started dancing because the money transfer finally arrived, and this Eid will be beautiful, InshaAllah.

It was difficult for the funds to arrive before Eid, but thanks to my cousin, who decided to give me from his own money until the transfer from my friend who manages my campaign arrives, this Eid became possible.

These two people have a great favor over me.

Anyway…

We were among the last to prepare for Eid, laughing because we are always late.

But in the end, Allah does not forget anyone, and His mercy reaches even those whose paths are delayed, and you are here as well.

Beautiful gifts that bring joy and restore smiles to children’s hearts

The funny thing is that every time I finish something and close it, I have to reopen it because of Hassan…

After some items were missing, he went to buy them to complete everything, but he came back with new chocolate instead haha. And I know how much the children love chocolate, so I will have to reopen all the gift bags.

But this time I won’t stress myself haha, because this chocolate is really delicious.

The children deserve it, especially with the absence of cash in Gaza, which they usually prefer haha.

As if joy itself sometimes needs alternatives, just to stay alive in hearts… even if it’s just a chocolate piece shaped like money.

By the way, I found this shekel in an old pocket of mine yesterday. I hadn’t seen it in a long time haha… well, not everyone will understand that.

But if you want to understand, you can read this article.

Buying Money with Money

I don’t know why I feel like a child now… I am happier than them, and I will take my share like them haha.

Even Inga is jealous now and wants her gift.. how can children take gifts and she cannot?

Ofccc naaah haha

Even there is a new guest who comes every day to eat, but Inga is also very jealous of him and insists on kicking him out. She even hits him haha she really makes me laugh, this spoiled one.

Finally, we were able to prepare some small gifts for our families’ children, and whatever remains will go to the beloved children of the neighborhood. But unfortunately, what we have is not enough for everyone, and our resources are limited, and we cannot go beyond what we received from your generous donations.

Therefore, if you would like to contribute with a small additional gift, it may be a reason to bring a smile to the faces of other children who are still waiting for their joy.

And we emphasize once again with all love and sincerity: those who have already donated in recent days should not feel any pressure or obligation to give more, as your previous contributions were and remain greatly appreciated.

Shukran to everyone who stood with us and was part of this love.

With all love and appreciation

Shahad, Hassan and Inga 🐾

Leave a gift for the three of us & kids

When some European countries choose to open their doors to students from Gaza so they can continue their studies, while at the same time closing the doors of survival for patients waiting for treatment… then something is wrong…

I feel a heavy contradiction pressing on my heart, one that cannot be ignored or brushed aside as if nothing were happening!!!

Today I decided to write about this feeling, especially since my partner and I talked about it yesterday… about travel plans that fail again and again, and about hope that is rebuilt every time only to collapse once more.

He wishes to travel, to go out.. even temporarily to a space of safety, and to receive treatment in Egypt, which he considers the closest and most realistic option in light of the severe collapse of the health sector in Gaza. In some cases, treatments are even done without anesthesia, under the unbearable pressure of extreme shortages of resources.

As for me, I do not see Egypt or anywhere else as the “ideal solution,” but under this prolonged siege that has lasted for years, any opening to life becomes a necessity, not a joke or even a luxury. And in this, my partner may be right.

But let us return to the core idea…

Just two days ago, Italy received a group of students from Gaza and opened its doors for them to complete their higher education in its universities. A few months ago, the Netherlands also offered scholarships and welcomed other students from Gaza. And there are other countries that open the doors of education and offer scholarships, travel, and study opportunities.

And we can only say: Shukraaaannn.

But… the question that never leaves my mind is:

What is behind all of this???

Why does this stark contradiction happen???

Why is a student allowed to travel and study, while a patient is prevented from traveling to live?!

Why is my neighbor Jamal Mousa, who is not even forty years old, and whose broken-hearted family cries over his condition every day, still struggling with death while waiting for approval to receive treatment outside Gaza?

And why is my uncle Kamel Dahlan facing the same fate, with his papers being rejected again and again.. doesn’t he also have a right to life?

I only mentioned these two people whom I know personally…

So what about the others???

What about hundreds of patients waiting for just one chance… a chance at life?

How can a patient be refused and a student be accepted? I ask myself.. does life have different standards?!!

From the world’s perspective………… I have become certain of the answer today.

When a Palestinian student is received for education, while a person close to him, or a friend, or a loved one is left facing death without treatment… then there is a flaw that cannot be ignored so easily.!!! Fuckkk

And my question remains…

How can anything be offered to Palestine without there being an interest behind it?

They know that the Palestinian is a creative mind, capable of building, thinking, and shaping the future. They know he is capable of building an entire world, not just a state… But in contrast, this mind is restricted, besieged, and all paths are closed before it, until even the oxygen it breathes has become subject to calculation.

I feel that the world does not move out of love, justice, or humanity, but rather according to cold interests that only see human beings through the lens of usefulness… yeah, only usefulness.

And this feeling leaves within me great anger and deeper sorrow.

That they only want to benefit from Palestinian minds, not out of love for us, nor fear for us, nor appreciation of us.

I hate all governments, and I hate the entire world if this is its motive, and if this is the way it thinks and operates in pursuit of power and wealth, at the expense of our blood, our dignity, and our right to live.

I still see that everyone is benefiting from this genocide being carried out against us.

And I know I do not have all the answers, but what I see is clear at least to me: what is happening is not normal, and staying silent about it is harder than expressing it, believe me… and I bet that opportunities are not given to everyone, but only to the exceptional students.

And sorry, I am very sorry if this touches anyone or presses a sensitive button within them, but this is what I am, and this is what I live every day.

Yeah, I am the event, I am the news… and I am the one who dies a little every day here.

And these are my thoughts, which I can never tame, and I will continue to express them, and I will never choose silence.

And if this does not suit you, you can simply remove me or mute my account.

Shukran for reading.

I usually don’t share anything here except my poems, but this article was too long, and I couldn’t turn it into a simple post…

Share your opinion too, or even criticism if you’d like.. I’m listening, and I’m open to what you have to say.

اترك تعليقًا

Merhaba.. This is Shahad

A Palestinian poet, writer, and influencer, striving through words to build a bridge of humanity between people everywhere, and to reshape awareness on the foundations of love, justice, and dignity.

And believing that humanity is the only language everyone can understand.

I weave pain into my poems, trying to make words a voice that reaches the world. I write real poetry and tell stories, striving to be a voice for those who have no voice.

Shukran to everyone who reads, listens, and shares this voice.

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