Give Sorrow Words: A Tribute to Mama & Ameer, Whose Voices Now Ring Out From Heaven
The tragedies of Shakespeare pale in comparison to these poems out of Gaza. In a “to-be-or-not-to-be genocide,” the limits of language are severely tested and emotions reach their last breaths. Besieged, beleaguered, beset with challenges beyond description, can Gaza ever just “be?” Or is it only to know endless betrayal?
Letter to the Reader
Dear Readers,
Since literature imitates real life, I lean on writing, especially poems. In my poems I have tried to mirror the miserable reality in Gaza. I want to tell you that our martyrs are very much alive in our minds and hearts and, most importantly, in our words, just like Dr. Refaat.
They are massacred and deliberately targeted, and while they left us physically, they are alive, telling their stories. So, we are here in a to-be-or-not-to be genocide; we have already told many stories and many heartbreaking poems. Don’t choose to be blind, and don’t be misled by the fabricated narrative of Israel.
What is happening in Gaza is beyond such a poem or a story; it is beyond. And here I want to capitalize on what Kait Rokowsky said, “Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends, and we turn it into poetry. All the blood was never once beautiful; it was just red.” Therefore, my poems, and our poems are not written to romanticize our death or to feel sorry for ourselves. Don’t shed tears or offer pity—your sadness cannot undo our pain. Instead, act. Do something, even if you think it’s a simple gesture. Even the smallest action—raising your voice, sharing our truth, challenging the lies—can carry our stories further. Our words demand your deeds, no matter how small, to break the silence and fight for justice.
Sample Text
Gaza: Beyond Comparison
Shall I compare Gaza to grief itself?
Or shall I compare it to the abyss of despair?
Its beautiful warm streets are suffocating with rivers of blood.
Its days are crowded with pain, death, and sighs.
If Gaza were a human with a heart, it would prefer to have a thousand and more, for one heart is too small, too fragile to splinter beneath the crushing weight of such anguish.
Shall I compare Gaza to the silenced plea?
Marginalized by this fake world, masked with false virtues.
Its wound is so deep, yet remains visible.
And its suffering never ceases.
Shall I compare Gaza with crimson roses?
Whose roots dig down deep into the land, burned and torn, and its leaves tortured by aphids,
Yet its petals steadfastly grow at every dawn.
Shall I compare Gaza with the caged bird?
Bound by the bars of a small, little, unyielding gate.
His melodic sound touches and softens the free, genuine hearts.
And his wings are clipped by the claws of the most moral beasts that prowl around as they promise, “We will break you free soon.”
Yet, the bird still sings, and his stubborn echoes will remain for eternity.
Shall I compare Gaza with...?
Yet Gaza defies all comparison, beyond the reach of words and beyond such a scratch of paint.
Gaza is where life is not merely to endure but to strive for — against all odds, against all silence, against all pain.
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