A review of We Are Not Numbers: The Voices of Gaza’s Youth, edited by Ahmed Alnaouq and Pam Bailey The anthology We Are Not Numbers, The Voices of Gaza’s Youth, published by Interlink Books today, is a collection of essays by young Palestinian writers in Gaza, edited by Ahmed Alnaouq and Pam . . .
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What if I were there? That one question is chasing me like the ticking of a clock. Gazans are getting killed in their homes, mosques, churches, streets – even on the beach. Even the cup of coffee, family gatherings, love, and laughter by the waves, all become targeted by Israel in a . . .
Read MoreJuly 25 marks the day I first opened my eyes to life. This year I turned twenty years old — nearly two of which were lost to war. I am not someone who enjoys loud, crowded parties, but I do love to share my special moments with those I value most. For . . .
Read MoreIt’s 5:50 in the morning, just ten minutes before the university bus is supposed to arrive. I should be rushing to catch it and head to my classes in Gaza, just like I used to every day. But today, I’m trapped in a nightmare from which I can’t awake. The alarm ringing . . .
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The final year of high school in Palestine, known as Tawjihi, has always symbolized more than just exams. It’s a year of dreams, a year in which every student’s aspirations meet their family’s ambitions. The future of a nation rests on the shoulders of our generation. But in Gaza, Tawjihi has become . . .
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After months of war in my neighborhood of Al-Shujaiya—a place that was once full of life and laughter—everything was gone. No homes, no people, no signs of the world we once knew. After the third invasion, it became a ghost town, buried in silence and rubble. During the genocide, before we had . . .
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Some of us were born into fire. Others into silence. But for us in Gaza—our first breath came with the taste of fear. The world met us with its back turned. Sometimes our pain, hunger, and fear get romanticized or turned into some kind of heroicnarrative—as if we chose this, or as . . .
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Translator’s Note: The French adjective populaire, used here to qualify quartier (neighborhood, area, district, ward),is a translation conundrum. Not to be confused with “popular,” populaire is often translated as “working class,” but the Marxist overtones of this term are misleading, erasing the way the term has morphed into a racial euphemism to . . .
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FOOTSTEPS RUNNING AWAY FROM THEMSELVES Rapid under the feet of children whogrew up too soonand changed their shoesand their featuresin a hurry Time was rushinglike the ambulancesstruggling to run after explosions In the streets that tear their clothesand the birds that change their shapes There is death on both sidesand death is . . .
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Photo courtesy of the Author Something that makes me fall in love with Gaza even more each day is the unspoken I-have-little-you-have-little-let’s-share-it attitude that thrives among households. I have a neighbour, a wife and mother of five, whose financial situation is visibly difficult. Yet from the very first day I moved into . . .
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