Author: admin

Children of Gaza and the impact of the latest war on them, and of what came before it.

Anyone who hears about the children of Gaza now tends to have a preconceived idea shaped by what they read in the press, especially the term that has become widespread over recent years and decades: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), a concept most people have heard of or read about.
But what is happening in Gaza is far greater than PTSD, and far deeper than that.

PTSD emerged as a medical diagnosis to describe a specific condition: exposure to a single, exceptional traumatic event that posed an immediate threat to an individual’s existence and survival at a particular moment in time. This diagnosis arose, to a large extent, under social pressures related to compensating combatants and war victims.

This is not the case in Gaza today.
There is no single trauma confined to a specific moment in time. Instead, there are repeated, life-threatening traumas occurring daily over the course of two full years. The child’s very existence is threatened every day, at every moment. The child lives in a prolonged state of deprivation unprecedented in the world: deprivation of food, of home, of water, and of normal parental care, either because the parents have been lost, or because they themselves live in a state of fear and helplessness.

The child is deprived of play and of school. These are daily, life-threatening traumas, coupled with total deprivation of everything, for two long years and more.

Two years in the life of a child mean everything.
They do not represent a single moment of trauma that occurs and then ends; they represent an entire developmental stage in a child’s life. And certainly, we are facing something deeper, more enduring, and more destructive than anything encompassed by the widely used term known as post-traumatic stress disorder.

Here, the process is broader, more entrenched, and more resistant to treatment, because it concerns the child’s very development. It becomes a structural part of the child’s brain development and psychological growth. It affects how the child regulates emotions, emotions that become dysregulated and chaotic, as well as the nature of their social and human relationships, the quality of their communication, their philosophical outlook, and even their understanding of the meaning of life itself.

Children… my God.
How will they grow up? And what will they become?

Nothing will compensate them. They have lost their innocent childhood, and the loss will continue for what remains of their lives. Something has been broken forever.

29.12.2025

Tent

In Gaza, fear is no longer a temporary state; it has become a constant part of everyday life. It accompanies changes in the weather, with every passing cloud and every sudden gust of wind. This fear is not merely psychological, it is tied to tangible risks: flooding, the collapse of tents, and the loss of the only available shelter. Temporary tents have, by force of reality, turned into permanent dwellings, yet they offer no real protection from cold or rain. Made of thin tarpaulins, they cannot withstand harsh weather conditions.

For many people in Gaza, daily hope has become painfully limited and simple: that winter will pass without heavy rain, and that the winds will subside. Every rainfall may lead to thousands of tents flooding, and every storm may mean the complete loss of shelter. Under these conditions, people rely on primitive means that provide only the bare minimum for survival. Long nights pass without adequate sleep; children suffer from cold and hunger; families live in a constant state of anxiety and helplessness, with no practical solutions within reach.

Against this harsh humanitarian reality, public rhetoric is repeatedly voiced without meaningful practical response. Those affected are urged to endure and remain resilient, without parallel efforts to provide safe shelter or basic necessities that reduce risk. Words alone do not stop the rain, compensate for the absence of a roof, or protect bodies from the bitter cold. This reality raises a legitimate question about the value of such calls in the absence of the minimum requirements for a dignified life.

The voice of those living in tents is not the voice of a single individual; it is the expression of a collective suffering endured by hundreds of thousands of families. Their demand is not a luxury, but a fundamental right to safety and life. It is an ongoing cry that reflects the scale of a daily tragedy, repeated under tents that do not protect, in an environment lacking security and resources.

In the camps, women make daily efforts to secure whatever old clothes and light blankets they can, items that no longer suffice. Pieces of fabric are washed with great care, and blankets are folded cautiously, as if they were tools of defence against the coming cold. Children play near the tents with bare feet, unaware that the first rainfall could turn their play into a long night of fear and instability.

The need for new tarpaulins and simple materials, such as wood, nails, and plastic sheets, to seal the growing holes in the tents continues to increase. These are repeated attempts, yet insufficient, to confront a cold that seeps into bodies exhausted by fatigue and into souls weighed down by anxiety and loss. The smell of firewood filling the air does not signify warmth as much as it reflects fear of a long, harsh winter.

Some men gather what remains of wood from destroyed homes, while others try to repair old stoves that are no longer safe to use. Everything in this reality is fragile: shelter, health, and even hope. With the first cold wave, collective anxiety intensifies, and simple yet profound questions arise about the ability to endure.

Winter in Gaza does not bring rain alone; it revives memories of safe homes and solid roofs, and exposes the gap between what is available and what is necessary. The sky is heavy with clouds, the ground heavy with suffering, and the tents struggle to endure with what little material remains. Amid all this, eyes remain lifted to the sky with one wish: that this winter passes with the least possible loss and the greatest possible measure of human safety.

28.12.2025

About Gaza, for those who might care

I am unable to write anything about Gaza any more. The people of Gaza have been left to their own destiny. 

The announcement of ceasefire is enough to turn all eyes away from Gaza, while Gaza keeps suffering and bleeding 

Since the ceasefire was announced more than 400 people in Gaza have been killed, and again the majority are children and women, still people can barely find their daily food.

56% of Gaza, which anyway is small, is empty of Gaza’s people and is controlled by Israel army who continue destroying all the buildings and infrastructure within this area. And this area the 56%, is growing every day. The Israeli army is moving into the 44 % taking more space and squeezing Gaza’s people into a more and more small area. 

The majority of people are living in very fragile shelters, made of cloth and that does not preotect them from heat or cold, from sun nor rain. 

There in Kiryat Gat, in what they call “the Military Coordination Center”, they have big screens showing everything that is happening inside Gaza. They see people drown in winter. They see people in queues for food; they see people in queues for water, they see the Israeli army moving around inside Gaza and continuing  to kill innocent people. They see all of this and more, as if they are watching an entertaining movie. Nothing moves them, not the cries of the hungry and cold children, nor the despair of the people.

They know that 3700 pregnant women are at risk of malnutrition and they don’t care 

They know that there are 15,000 injured and sick people in need of health treatment outside Gaza, and already 190 of them have died and they don’t care. 

They know that the health system is collapsing and they don’t care. 

They know that the education system collapsing and they don’t care. 

They know that there are more than 20,000 unexploded ordinances amongst the rubble which are life threatening and they don’t care. 

They know that there are more than 90,000 children on the edge of malnutrition and they don’t care. 

Despite the announcement of a ceasefire, the people of Gaza continue to face severe and interlinked challenges:

1- Humanitarian and Living Conditions

• Severe shortages of food and safe drinking water, soaring prices, and a collapse in purchasing power.
• Damaged water and electricity networks with ongoing service disruptions.
• Overcrowded displacement shelters and a critical lack of adequate shelter, especially during winter.

2- Health sector: 

• Hospitals and health facilities damaged or non-functional, operating at limited capacity.
• Shortages of medicines, medical supplies, and health staff.
• Large numbers of injured people and persons with disabilities requiring long-term rehabilitation.

3- Mental Health and Social Impact

• Widespread psychological trauma, anxiety, and depression, particularly among children.
• Family disintegration, loss of breadwinners, and increased risks of domestic violence and child protection concerns.
• Urgent need for sustained mental health and psychosocial support (MHPSS) services.

4- Housing and infrastructure 

• Extensive destruction of homes and critical infrastructure (roads, sewage systems, telecommunications).
• Lack of clear, rapid reconstruction plans and delays in the entry of construction materials.

5- Education: 

• Disruption of education, with partial or unsafe returns to learning.
• Schools destroyed or used as shelters, and shortages of teaching/learning materials.

6- Economic and livelihood: 

• Near-total paralysis of the local economy and extremely high unemployment.
• Loss of income sources and declining opportunities in trade, fishing, and agriculture.

7- Movement and Access: 

• Ongoing restrictions on movement and border crossings, limiting access to healthcare, travel, and trade.
• Complicated procedures for aid entry and equitable distribution.

8- Security and political challenges: 

• Fragility of the ceasefire and persistent fear of renewed escalation.
• Absence of a political horizon and lack of clear civilian protection and accountability mechanisms.

9- Humanitarian Operations and Coordination

• Challenges in safe access, coordination, and coverage for humanitarian actors.
• Need for flexible, long-term funding and better coordination to avoid duplication and gaps.

Conclusion:
A ceasefire is a necessary step, but it is not sufficient. Gaza’s recovery requires sustained civilian protection, effective opening of crossings, a comprehensive humanitarian response, and well-planned reconstruction, with people—especially children—at the centre of all efforts.

Yet, no one cares 

So why write ?????  

14.10.2025

They say

They say the war has laid down its arms.

No more daily killing.

Alright then…

People will rejoice a little, people will cry a little,

and the world will celebrate — a lot.

But will 40,000 orphaned children find someone to care for them, to show them tenderness?

Will 20,000 widows find someone to gently pat their shoulders?

Will 45,000 people with disabilities find someone to hold their hands?

Will houses suddenly grow from the ground so that 2 million people can find shelter to protect them?

In Gaza, we tame our pain and raise hope.

13.10.2025

A call from the past 

On Wednesday 8^th October, I received a phone call from Gaza, from my friend Naem Naser 

Naem is my friend, my colleague in theatre and my mentor since 1993, a great actor, director and musician. We worked together on many theatres production, as actors on stage. He has been a director of many theatre plays.

Last time I met Naem was on February 2024, two months before leaving Gaza for Egypt. Since then, we were able to talk only once. It seems like ages ago. War time passes so heavily, with the fear, the pain, the agony, the distance, the worry, the nightmares, every second equals years. 

Although we studied theatre together on 1993, and although we worked side by side for over 30 years, I always considered him my mentor, my teacher, he was the one who held the wisdom, the calmness and the solutions of any problem we face. 

Naem used to work at the sanitation department at the UNRWA until the year 2000 when his health did not allow him to bear this hard work. He had two open heart surgeries and two other surgeries on his back and neck. Since 2005 he hasn’t been able move his hand properly, so he hasn’t been able  play music since then. This was like taking a part of his soul from him. Until now he has lived in deep poverty for many long years.

He called me last Wednesday saying that he has been trying to reach me for more than a month. But he is in Mawasi, Khan Younis in a tent and the closest place to access internet is 1 km away, a distance that he hasn’t been able to walk for this last period. Today with the help of his wife and his stick he walked this distance. His wife carried a plastic chair so he could sit and rest from time to time while walking this huge distance of 1000 meters.  Finally, he made it and finally he called me. He could not talk, I could not talk, without tears. He suffers from weakness in his heart muscles and he can’t find the necessary medicine any more. He is calling me to hear my voice, to tell me that he loves me. And finally, to ask me to help him find his medicine.

I will do my best, my friend. I will do my best. Please hold on. I love you so much. 

 

 

14.09.2025

A letter from my sister 

At approximately one o’clock in the afternoon, I was walking with my family near the Tamraz gas station on Tunnel Street, heading towards Al-Mashahra Street. Suddenly, a reconnaissance “quad” drone dropped an explosive bomb on the street. The sound of the explosion was deafening, so I ran with my 5 children, my old husband Abdelsamee’a, and his brother Muhammad’s wife toward a nearby mechanic’s shop.

Within seconds, I felt a sharp pain in my feet. At first, I thought it was just fear from the intensity of the blast, but soon blood began to gush from my right and left feet, and from my waist as well. I wasn’t the only one injured. I found my older son Ali bleeding and feeling dizzy, and my husband bleeding all over his body. Yet, despite his own injuries, he desperately tried to reassure all of us, coming to me at times, towards the children at others, and towards Hala, his brother Muhammad’s wife, at other moments. He didn’t feel his own pain; his fear for us was stronger than his wounds.

We stayed at the mechanic’s for a full half-hour without an ambulance arriving, until some young men who were present volunteered and tightly bandaged our wounds to stop the bleeding. After that, we found a private car that took us to the hospital. But there, the situation wasn’t easy, the medical teams were facing a flood of injuries, and every injured person was waiting their turn.

I couldn’t hold back my tears; I cried intensely; tears I had never shed before. As if everything that had built up inside me came out all at once. I felt a terrible fear, the fear that had accompanied me since the beginning of this war: the fear that the shrapnel had hit an artery and that my foot would need to be amputated. I thought, with brutal honesty, that I would rather die than lose a part of my body.

When the doctor arrived, she sent me for an X-ray. I could barely walk to the room, but to my surprise, the X-ray machine needed charging! I waited a full half-hour until the machine was charged, and fortunately, I was the first to go in. After that, I had my wounds dressed and left the hospital exhausted after an arduous journey.

But the injury on my left foot started bleeding heavily again, so I went to another hospital, the Al-Shifa Medical Complex, due to its proximity to where I was staying. There, it turned out that my wound needed cleaning, sterilising, and several stitches. During the procedure, I lost consciousness from extreme fatigue and exhaustion.

The scene inside the hospital was like a silent slaughterhouse; corridors crowded with the injured, faces smeared with blood, and screams filling the place. I stood next to an injured person lying on the ground, screaming in agony as he called out for his fiancée, who had just lost her life. He didn’t feel his own pain; the agony of loss was greater than the pain of his wounds. Beside him, a mother was crying and pleading for someone to save her son, who was bleeding.

In those moments, I felt that the hospital was no longer a hospital but a human “slaughterhouse,” with open wounds and pains beyond human endurance. We were all civilians, but the strikes left us with nothing but pain and destruction.

In Gaza, you are lucky if you enter the hospital and leave it with your body intact.

By the way, my husband is ok, his wounds were shallow, thanks to God 

250914

Une lettre de ma sœur 

Vers 13 heures, je marchais avec ma famille près de la station-service Tamraz, sur Tunnel Street, en direction d’Al-Mashahra Street. Soudain, un drone de reconnaissance « quad » a largué une bombe explosive sur la rue. Le bruit de l’explosion était assourdissant, alors j’ai couru avec mes cinq enfants, mon vieux mari Abdelsamee’a et la femme de son frère Muhammad vers un garage mécanique situé à proximité.

En quelques secondes, j’ai ressenti une douleur aiguë dans les pieds. Au début, j’ai pensé que c’était juste la peur causée par l’intensité de l’explosion, mais bientôt, du sang a commencé à jaillir de mes pieds droit et gauche, ainsi que de ma taille. Je n’étais pas la seule blessée. J’ai trouvé mon fils aîné Ali en sang et pris de vertiges, et mon mari couvert de sang. Pourtant, malgré ses propres blessures, il essayait désespérément de nous rassurer tous, se déplaçant tantôt vers moi, tantôt vers les enfants, tantôt vers Hala, la femme de son frère Muhammad. Il ne ressentait pas sa propre douleur ; sa peur pour nous était plus forte que ses blessures.

Nous sommes restés chez le mécanicien pendant une bonne demi-heure sans qu’aucune ambulance n’arrive, jusqu’à ce que quelques jeunes hommes présents se portent volontaires et bandent nos blessures pour arrêter le saignement. Après cela, nous avons trouvé une voiture privée qui nous a emmenés à l’hôpital. Mais même là, le chemin n’a pas été facile, les équipes médicales étaient confrontées à un afflux de blessés et chaque blessé attendait son tour.

Je ne pouvais retenir mes larmes ; j’ai pleuré intensément, des larmes que je n’avais jamais versées auparavant. Comme si tout ce qui s’était accumulé en moi sortait d’un seul coup. J’ai ressenti une peur terrible, celle qui m’accompagnait depuis le début de cette guerre : la peur que l’éclat d’obus ait touché une artère et que mon pied doive être amputé. J’ai pensé, avec une honnêteté brutale, que je préférais mourir plutôt que de perdre une partie du corps qui me restait.

Lorsque le médecin est arrivé, il m’a envoyé passer une radiographie. Je pouvais à peine marcher jusqu’à la salle, mais à ma grande surprise, l’appareil de radiographie avait besoin d’être rechargé ! J’ai attendu une bonne demi-heure que l’appareil soit rechargé et, heureusement, j’ai été la première à passer. Après cela, on m’a pansé mes blessures et j’ai quittée l’hôpital épuisée après un parcours difficile.

Mais la blessure à mon pied gauche s’est remise à saigner abondamment, je me suis donc rendu dans un autre hôpital, le complexe médical Al-Shifa, en raison de sa proximité avec l’endroit où je logeais. Là-bas, il s’est avéré que ma blessure devait être nettoyée, stérilisée et recousue à plusieurs endroits. Pendant l’intervention, j’ai perdu connaissance à cause d’une fatigue et d’un épuisement extrêmes.

À l’intérieur de l’hôpital, l’atmosphère était celle d’un abattoir silencieux : les couloirs étaient bondés de blessés, les visages maculés de sang et les cris remplissaient les lieux. Je me tenais à côté d’une personne blessée allongée sur le sol, hurlant de douleur et appelant sa fiancée, qui venait de perdre la vie. Il ne ressentait pas sa propre douleur ; l’agonie de la perte était plus forte que la douleur de ses blessures. À côté de lui, une mère pleurait et suppliait quelqu’un de sauver son fils, qui saignait.

À ce moment-là, j’ai eu l’impression que l’hôpital n’était plus un hôpital, mais un véritable « abattoir » humain, avec des blessures ouvertes et des douleurs dépassant les limites de l’endurance humaine. Nous étions tous des civils, mais les frappes ne nous ont laissé que douleur et destruction.

À Gaza, vous avez de la chance si vous entrez à l’hôpital et en ressortez avec votre corps intact.

Au fait, mon mari va bien, ses blessures étaient superficielles, grâce à Dieu.

In the last twenty-four hours alone

15.09.2025

Did you know that one of the things the people of Gaza long for most is sleep?

Everyone in Gaza wishes they could sleep for just a few continuous hours.

Sleep in Gaza is forbidden.
How can anyone in Gaza sleep?
It’s not just the sound of shelling and bombing and shooting, the shaking of walls, windows, doors, and the ground.
There are so many reasons not to sleep.

Ahmed is preparing to evacuate from Gaza City. He walks through every room in the house, gathering what he can carry. He reaches his young daughter Laila’s room and starts packing some of her clothes. She screams and cries:
“Don’t take my clothes. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to be displaced. I don’t want to live in a tent.”
He tries to calm her down, but in vain. He is forced to leave her crying and continues to gather only what can be carried. Not everything. Not everything they might need. Just what they can carry to walk over 7 kilometres to the central area, outside the borders of Gaza City.

Saeed is sitting beside the mattress where his elderly, sick father is lying. He’s trying to convince him to leave the house. Most of the neighbouring houses have been bombed. Shrapnel has entered their home multiple times. His wife and son were injured.
The father refuses to evacuate:
“I will die here. Leave me and go, all of you. I won’t leave my home.”
Saeed sits in silence. All his attempts to convince his father have failed. He gives up and sits next to him, saying: “Let God’s will be done.”

Samira (Umm Khaled) carries her two-year-old son, Ali, and on her back hangs something like a bag with as many clothes as she could pack. She walks barefoot, her seven-year-old daughter by her side, along the dusty, rubble-filled path near the coast heading to the central area. Just a few days earlier, her husband was killed by a bullet to the head while trying to get a food parcel from the American Humanitarian Foundation in Gaza.

Mohammed, a young man not yet twenty, left his sick father and younger brother in Gaza City four days ago. He went to the central area and Khan Younis to search for a place where they could stay. For four days, he searched everywhere: Nuseirat, then Sawarha, then Zawaida, then Deir al-Balah, then Hikr, then Khan Younis, then Al-Mawasi, then Hamad City, then Al-Maghazi, then Al-Masdar, then Al-Bureij. Four days, and he couldn’t find even two square meters of land to pitch a tent and bring his father and brother. Four days, mostly without food or water. Four days, collapsing from exhaustion in any space between tents or in hospital yards. Four days, and no place to settle.
These locations make up less than 20% of the Gaza Strip. Most people have crowded into them. There is no place for an exhausted body. Not even a place to put your foot.

Noor: “I’m not okay. But I’m ready for the meeting.” That was my colleague, Noor, from Gaza, during a work meeting yesterday. That’s how she answered when I asked her how she was. “We had to evacuate after midnight when the house next to ours was bombed. I left my family in the street to attend the meeting. Martyrs and injured people filled the streets. Ambulances couldn’t reach the area because of the continuous bombing. We survived… but I wish we hadn’t.
A quick death has become a wish — a reward only the lucky get. And they are not few. Between 80 to 100 ‘lucky ones’ are killed daily by shelling, bombing, and gunfire. Our turn hasn’t come yet. Maybe next time we’ll be lucky. But for now, I’m here, ready for the meeting. Don’t worry.”

“Good day, Mr. Hossam. After exhausting all my options looking for places to evacuate with my children, my husband refuses to leave Gaza. But my children are terrified. We live in a tent, and the bombing is everywhere. I’m in desperate need, if there’s any possibility that my children and I can seek refuge at the community centre, just us… please let me know. If there are any restrictions or if it would be inappropriate, I hope you’ll tell me. I don’t want to submit a formal request and have it rejected. Please advise me. I await your reply, dear sir. Thank you — may you always be a support to us.”

“My dear brother Hossam, as you know, my son Mohammed had surgery after losing a large part of his thigh. They did two grafts from the other thigh. I want to thank you for the medical dressings your friend sent. The wound is still open and needs daily cleaning and dressing. His leg is still in a plaster cast, as are his two broken arms. Thankfully, the wound where he lost three fingers has started to heal. After we were forced to leave our home in the Al-Saftawi area during the shelling, we took refuge in my wife’s sister’s apartment, sixth floor, near the city centre. But with the ongoing destruction of high-rise buildings, her husband decided we must evacuate to the south. I will go with them. But I need a wheelchair to transport Mohammed. I asked my nephew Sami for the wheelchair my late mother used, but he refused. He says he needs it to carry their remaining clothes and essentials when they move to the south. Is this fair? Are belongings more important than my wounded son? Please, my brother, talk to him — or if you can help me find another wheelchair. There’s no time, and the bombing hasn’t stopped. Carrying Mohammed isn’t an option. Even if we could, he would be severely hurt. Please don’t delay in replying.”

“Where are you, my friend? Why haven’t we heard from you? Why don’t you call or check in?”

“I don’t know how to answer you, my friend. I feel helpless and ashamed to ask if you’re okay, knowing full well that you’re not okay at all. And there’s nothing I can do. This feeling of helplessness keeps me from reaching out. I’m here, far from Gaza, where there’s no bombing and no killing. Forgive me.”

“My friend, there’s no need to apologise or feel ashamed. We know very well there’s nothing you can do. But believe me, hearing from you, just knowing someone is thinking about us means the world. It reminds us that we’re not alone. That’s enough. Please, stay in touch, even if just with a word.”

“I will not leave this place. I will not move from the rubble of the house until they retrieve my son’s body from under the debris.”

“Please, mother. I beg you. I kiss your hands and feet. We must go. Don’t you hear the sound of military vehicles? They’ll be here in minutes, and they will execute us. Please, move. Haitham is now in God’s hands. There’s nothing more we can do. He’s gone. Consider the rubble his grave. I beg you.”

The mother screams with all the pain inside her. A scream that would have awakened the dead if she were a goddess. But she is not a goddess.
She is simply a mother from Gaza.

Exile

03.09.2025 

Here in Egypt, in Cairo, a nice big city, 

I sit before a window that looks out onto a sky that is not my own, in a house whose walls are made of the silence of strangers. Exile here is not merely a place one arrives at and departs from; it is a solid wall built around the heart before it encloses the body.

This house, whose stones I did not choose, whose corners hold no scent of my memories, has become a transparent cage… I see the world through it, but I cannot touch it. Everything here whispers that I am an unwelcome guest, a shadow trying to stretch across land that refuses to belong to my feet.

But the true cage is not these four walls. It is this identity I carry like a fiery brand on my forehead, an identity that closes doors instead of opening them. I am from there… from where shattered birds are not allowed to cross. My passport is a sentence to imprisonment in the world’s exile. A Palestinian from Gaza… this phrase alone is enough to turn every border on earth into a high barrier, every embassy into a locked prison.

Fear resides within me. Not a fear of the unknown, but of the certainty of absolute helplessness. The fear that a fierce wind will blow and sweep away this flimsy roof sheltering those I love. The fear that my hands will betray me as I try to grasp the fraying threads of sustenance. How can I hold water in a sieve? How can I fill my children’s plates from an empty dish?

The homeland is there… distant, like a dream that no longer visits me at night. I have become afraid to sleep, lest I see it in my dreams and wake to the bitterness of reality. No path for return, no hope for departure. Suspended between a sky I cannot fly under except with broken wings, and land I cannot belong to except with a pain that roots itself in my core.

I have become a prisoner of an indelible identity, a war that does not end, following me wherever I fly or alight. The entire world is a map forbidden to me, and all I possess is this patch of pain beneath my feet.

So how can fear be fuel? How can a shackle be a wing? I sometimes wonder: Do candles light themselves from within even as they burn to illuminate a path for others? Or do they burn unseen by anyone in the absolute darkness of exile?

منفى

هنا، في مصر. في القاهرة. هذه البلد الرائعة. المدينة الواسعة. شوارع لم تعتدها قدمي، طعم الهواء غريب وحتى شجر الشوارع يقول لي أنا لست لك. أجلسُ أمام نافذة تطلُّ على سماءٍ ليست سمائي في بيتٍ جدرانه من صمت الغرباء. الغُربَةُ هنا ليست مجردَ مكانٍ نصلُ إليه ونرحلُ عنه، بل هي حائطٌ أصم يُقام حول القلب قبل الجسد.

هذا البيت الذي لم أخترْ حجارته، ولم تَعْبَقْ زواياه برائحة ذكرياتي، صارَ قفصاً من زجاجٍ شفاف… أرى العالمَ من خلاله، لكني لا أستطيعُ لمسه. كلُّ شيءٍ هنا يهمسُ بأنني ضيفٌ ثقيل، وظلٌّ يحاول أن يتمدّد في أرضٍ ترفض أن تنتمي إليه قدماه.

لكن السجن الحقيقيَّ ليس هذه الجدران الأربعة. بل هو تلك الهُويةُ التي أحملها كوشمٍ نارِيٍّ على جبيني، تُغلقُ به الأبوابُ بدلاً من أن تفتحها. أنا من هناك… من حيثُ لا يُسمحُ للطيورِ المهشمة بالعبور. جوازُ سفري هو حُكمٌ بالسَّجنِ في منفى العالم. فلسطينيٌ من غزّة… هذه الجملةُ وحدها كفيلةٌ بأن تُحوِّلَ كلَّ حدودِ الأرضِ إلى متاريسَ عالية، وكلَّ سفارةٍ إلى سجنٍ مغلق.

الخوفُ يسكنُني. ليس خوفاً من المجهول، بل من يقينِ العجزِ المُطلق. الخوفُ من أن تَهُبَّ ريحٌ عاتيةٌ فتُطيّر هذا السقفَ الواهي الذي يحتمي تحته من أحبّ. الخوفُ من أن تخونني يدايَ وأنا أحاولُ أن أمسكَ بخيوط الرزقِ المتآكلة. كيفَ لي أن أُمسك ماءً بالغربال؟ كيفَ لي أن أملأَ صحونَ أهل بيتي من صحنٍ فارغ؟

الوطنُ هناك… بعيدٌ كحلمٍ لم يعد يزورني في الليل. أصبحتُ أخشى النومَ كي لا أراهُ في المنام فأستيقظُ على مرارةِ الواقع. لا طريقَ للعودة، ولا أملَ في المغادرة. مُعلَّقٌ بين سماءٍ لا أرفرفُ تحتها إلا بجناحين مكسورين، وأرضٍ لا أنتمي إليها إلا بألمٍ يغرسُ جذوره في أحشائي.

أصبحتُ سجينَ هويةٍ لا تزول، وحربٍ لا تنتهي، تتبعني أينما حلقتُ أو حططت. العالمُ بأكملهِ خارطةٌ ممنوعةٌ عليَّ، وأنا لا أملكُ إلا بقعةَ الألمِ هذهِ تحتَ قدميّ.

فكيفَ للخوفِ أن يكون وقوداً، وكيفَ للقيدِ أن يكونَ جناحاً؟ أحياناً أتساءلُ: هل تُضاءُ الشموعُ من داخلها حتى وهي تحترقُ لتُضيءَ للغيرِ طريقاً، أم أنها تحترقُ دون أن يراها أحدٌ في ظلامِ الغُربةِ المُطلقة؟

2 September 2025

Appeal

Message from Gaza to the Conscience of the World

To all those who still carry a trace of humanity in their hearts,
To those whose ears have not been deafened by the noise of indifference,
To everyone who believes that pain knows no nationality, and life is not to be rationed by politics…

From Gaza, we write to you, not with ink on paper, but with our tears and our blood.
We write this message on walls scarred by agony and destruction.

We are not mere numbers in the news. We are not passing images on your screens.
We are mothers holding emptiness,
Children haunted by nightmares,
Elders groaning beneath the weight of pain, hunger, and abandonment.

We live in never-ending torment, surrounded by daily suffering.
We breathe affliction and survive in the midst of unbearable misery.
Every home we’ve lost, every child we’ve buried, every broken prayer is a dagger to the heart that never heals.

Each moment here is soaked in fear:
Terror in our eyes, panic in our hearts, anxiety gnawing at our souls, an ever-present dread.
There is no shelter, no medicine, no sleep, not even silence…
Even silence in Gaza groans.

We carry on our shoulders pain that is unbearable,
Throbbing in our bodies, stabbing in our souls, crippling our small dreams, radiating through every corner of our daily lives.

We have lost our homes, schools, mosques, and the dearest of loved ones.
Loss has become our daily bread.
Grief clings to our conversations.
Mourning is the garment we never remove.
We live in constant absence, trying to fill a void that cannot be filled.

And in the midst of all this, there is hunger…
Not just for food, but for peace, for life, for a moment of safety and embrace.
We yearn for a pure laugh, a safe second, the simplest of our human rights.

Can you hear us?

Is there anyone left in this world who still feels?

Is there room in the conscience of humanity for Gaza?

We are not asking for the impossible…
We ask only that you see the truth, that you hear our voices, that you know we are humans just like you:
We love, we fear, we dream, we grieve, we hunger, and we suffer.

This is not merely a war on land…
It is a war on dignity—a war on the right to live.

Raise your voices for us.

Do not let Gaza die in silence.

Hossam Almadhoun

2 septembre 2025

Appel

Message de Gaza à la conscience du monde

À tous ceux qui portent encore une trace d’humanité dans leur cœur,

À ceux dont les oreilles n’ont pas été assourdies par le bruit de l’indifférence,

À tous ceux qui croient que la douleur n’a pas de nationalité et que la vie ne doit pas être rationnée par la politique…

Depuis Gaza, nous vous écrivons, pas avec de l’encre sur du papier, mais avec nos larmes et notre sang.

Nous écrivons ce message sur des murs marqués par l’agonie et la destruction.

Nous ne sommes pas de simples chiffres dans les journaux. Nous ne sommes pas des images qui défilent sur vos écrans.

Nous sommes des mères qui portent un vide,

Des enfants hantés par des cauchemars,

Des personnes âgées gémissant sous le poids de la douleur, de la faim et de l’abandon.

Nous vivons dans un tourment sans fin, entourés de souffrances quotidiennes.

Nous respirons l’affliction et survivons au milieu d’une misère insupportable.

Chaque maison que nous avons perdue, chaque enfant que nous avons enterré, chaque prière brisée est un poignard dans le cœur qui ne guérit jamais.

Chaque instant ici est imprégné de peur :

La terreur dans nos yeux, la panique dans nos cœurs, l’anxiété qui ronge nos âmes, une crainte omniprésente.

Il n’y a pas d’abri, pas de médicaments, pas de sommeil, pas même de silence…

Même le silence à Gaza gémit.

Nous portons sur nos épaules une douleur insupportable,

Qui palpite dans nos corps, transperce nos âmes, paralyse nos petits rêves, irradie chaque recoin de notre vie quotidienne.

Nous avons perdu nos maisons, nos écoles, nos mosquées et nos êtres chers.

La perte est devenue notre pain quotidien.

Le chagrin imprègne nos conversations.

Le deuil est le vêtement que nous ne quittons jamais.

Nous vivons dans une absence constante, essayant de combler un vide qui ne peut être comblé.

Et au milieu de tout cela, il y a la faim…

Pas seulement la faim de nourriture, mais aussi la faim de paix, de vie, d’un moment de sécurité et d’étreinte.

Nous aspirons à un rire pur, à un instant de sécurité, au plus simple de nos droits humains.

Nous entendez-vous ?

Y a-t-il encore quelqu’un dans ce monde qui soit sensible à notre sort ?

Y a-t-il une place dans la conscience de l’humanité pour Gaza ?

Nous ne demandons pas l’impossible…

Nous vous demandons seulement de voir la vérité, d’entendre notre voix, de savoir que nous sommes des êtres humains comme vous :

Nous aimons, nous craignons, nous rêvons, nous pleurons, nous avons faim et nous souffrons.

Ce n’est pas seulement une guerre sur terre…

C’est une guerre contre la dignité, une guerre contre le droit de vivre.

Élevez vos voix pour nous.

Ne laissez pas Gaza mourir en silence.

Hossam Almadhoun

12 August 2025

A Conversation with a Friend from Gaza 

Hossam Almadhoun 

Hello my friend, I have been out of Gaza for more than a year now. I used to write my diaries when I was in Gaza, under attack. Today, as I am outside of Gaza, I can’t truly express what the people there are going through. Can you write about it? 

Dear friend, 

You asked me to write about it. Dear friend, with all due respect, I am too busy with countless daily struggles and have no extra time to write about anything.

For example, since this morning I have been thinking about how to light a fire, as my lighter is broken and there’s no other way to ignite the wood to make tea. I am waiting for the owner of the water well in the next street to turn on his generator so we can pump water into the tank and use the bathroom. 

One of my top priorities is to figure out today’s meal so we can survive. We also think about where we will go if the Israeli army issues a displacement order and tanks roll in to destroy the neighbourhood.

And every time one of my children goes out to run an errand, I worry whether he will return alive or be carried back in a coffin.

I have no time for writing because I spend most of my day walking 2 km from my tent to the market. There is no transportation, and even if there were, I wouldn’t have the money to pay the driver. Then I walk back and forth in the market searching for any food I can afford. Meanwhile, I think about my wife, who has been out since morning hoping to find some food aid distributed by NGOs.

I am busy trying to convince my 16-year-old son not to go to the American food distribution centres because I fear I might never see him alive again.

Busy figuring out how to build a toilet next to the tent, ensuring it is shielded from prying eyes while keeping a source of ventilation, determining the depth and searching for a metal barrel and plastic buckets.

I am busy convincing my wife to use an empty food can as a cleaning vessel after relieving herself, and to use sand for hand sanitation as soap is running out.
Busy planning how to bathe, deciding how many days my family and I can go between washes based on the available water resources while minimising consumption to the bare minimum and preserving supplies for as long as possible.

I am busy searching for a suitable response in awkward moments when a friend asks to borrow money and I am completely broke.

I am busy searching for medicine for my mother, who has diabetes and cannot find insulin at any health care centre.

Yes, my friend, I truly don’t have the time to write. Time moves to a different rhythm under attack. Even making a simple cup of tea can take at least an hour to light a fire and prepare it. And by the way, collecting scraps of wood, plastic, and paper from the garbage to fuel that fire also takes time.

And, on rare occasions, a moment of joy with my wife when our children are not in the tent.

Last but not least my friend, I need half an hour every night for myself, to cry silently alone in the darkness of the tent.

12 août 2025

Une conversation avec un ami de Gaza 

Bonjour, mon ami,

Cela fait maintenant plus d’un an que j’ai quitté Gaza. Quand j’étais à Gaza, j’avais l’habitude d’écrire mon journal intime sous les bombardements. Aujourd’hui, depuis l’extérieur de Gaza, je ne peux pas vraiment exprimer ce que vivent les gens là-bas.

Cher ami, 

Tu m’as demandé d’écrire à ce sujet.

Cher ami, avec tout le respect que je te dois, je suis trop occupé par d’innombrables difficultés quotidiennes et je n’ai pas le temps d’écrire quoi que ce soit.

Par exemple, depuis ce matin, je réfléchis à la manière d’allumer un feu, car mon briquet est cassé et je n’ai aucun autre moyen d’allumer le bois pour faire du thé. J’attends que le propriétaire du puits d’eau de la rue voisine mette en marche son générateur afin que nous puissions pomper de l’eau dans le réservoir et utiliser les toilettes. L’une de mes principales priorités est de trouver de quoi manger aujourd’hui afin que nous puissions survivre. Nous réfléchissons également à l’endroit où nous irons si l’armée israélienne émet un ordre d’évacuation et que des chars arrivent pour détruire le quartier.

Et chaque fois qu’un de mes enfants sort pour faire une course, je m’inquiète de savoir s’il reviendra vivant ou s’il sera ramené dans un cercueil.

Je n’ai pas le temps d’écrire, car je passe la majeure partie de ma journée à marcher 2 km entre ma tente et le marché. Il n’y a pas de moyen de transport, et même s’il y en avait, je n’aurais pas les moyens de payer le chauffeur. Je fais alors des allers-retours au marché à la recherche de nourriture que je peux me permettre. Pendant ce temps, je pense à ma femme, qui est partie depuis le matin dans l’espoir de trouver de l’aide alimentaire distribuée par des ONG.

Je suis occupé à convaincre mon fils de 16 ans de ne pas se rendre dans les centres de distribution alimentaire américains, car je crains de ne plus jamais le revoir vivant.

Je m’efforce de trouver comment construire des toilettes à côté de la tente, en veillant à ce qu’elles soient à l’abri des regards indiscrets tout en conservant une source de ventilation, en déterminant leur profondeur et les différentes options possibles, et en cherchant un baril métallique et des seaux en plastique.

Je m’efforce de convaincre ma femme d’utiliser une boîte de conserve vide comme récipient de nettoyage après être allée aux toilettes, et d’utiliser du sable pour se laver les mains, car nous n’avons plus de savon.

Je m’efforce de planifier comment nous allons nous laver, en déterminant combien de jours ma famille et moi pouvons passer sans nous laver en fonction des ressources en eau disponibles, tout en réduisant la consommation au strict minimum et en conservant les réserves aussi longtemps que possible.

Je suis occupé à chercher une réponse appropriée dans les moments délicats où un ami me demande de lui prêter de l’argent et que je suis complètement fauché.

Et, en de rares occasions, je suis occupé à profiter d’un moment de joie avec ma femme lorsque nos enfants ne sont pas dans la tente.

Je suis occupé à chercher des médicaments pour ma mère, qui est diabétique et ne trouve pas d’insuline dans les centres de santé.

Oui, mon ami, je n’ai vraiment pas le temps d’écrire. Le temps s’écoule à un rythme différent sous les attaques. Même préparer une simple tasse de thé peut prendre au moins une heure pour allumer le feu et la préparer. Et d’ailleurs, ramasser des morceaux de bois, de plastique et de papier dans les poubelles pour alimenter ce feu prend également du temps.

Et, en de rares occasions, je suis occupé à profiter d’un moment de joie avec ma femme lorsque nos enfants ne sont pas dans la tente.

Et enfin, j’ai besoin d’une demi-heure chaque soir pour pleurer en silence, seule dans l’obscurité de la tente.

Hossam Almadhoun