I write to you with fingers clutching a pen stained with blood, and letters that dance across lines carrying the wounds of a city that knows only how to love and to fight. From Gaza of dignity, from between the shackles of the occupier, I raise my voice: is there anyone who cares? And is all we hear in our ears nothing but the whine of missiles that leave nothing standing? Shame on you, tyrant ruler — tomorrow you will surely perish.
This book is not merely a narration of our history; it is our story that I try to tell to a deaf world. These pages are not words to be read and then folded away; they are a testimony of blood and tears, a cry of pain and hope, a message from beneath the rubble to everyone who has a beating heart. I was born in a time that knows nothing but war. Perhaps I was made to dream, but dreams were not made for me.
I was not born a writer, and perhaps I will never be a professional one; I have not sought fame or applause, yet I found in writing a refuge, in the word a weapon. When I volunteered during the war in Gaza, I used to hide hope in my pockets and hand it out to children amid the bombing. I would distract them with drawing and play while the planes above deafened us. Then I worked as a correspondent, conveying what cameras do not capture: a mother’s tear as she looks at her martyred son, a bride waiting for a groom who will not return, an orphaned child clutching a picture of his father and falling silent.
Here, the truth is deeper than the news clips. Here, the martyrs’ clothes hang on the line so their scent lingers in the home. Here, words are written by trembling fingers in the dark. I write to breathe; I write because I will suffocate if I do not release the stories living inside me. I used to write with my tears; I sometimes smiled and often fell silent, because pain cannot be written.
This book is not about me alone, but about those who left without farewell — about martyrs who were not numbers but faces we knew, and names we call in our dreams. This book is a plea to the world about the love that grows among bullets, the unbearable pain, and the hope that runs like a river beneath the rubble. Dear reader, when you read these lines, know that you are not merely a reader but a partner in pain and hope. Gaza is not a passing news item; it is a beating humanitarian cause.
Let us begin together from the first page... no, from the heart.
“Asil al-Samiri” Gaza, Palestine
I write to you with fingers clutching a pen stained with blood, and letters that dance across lines carrying the wounds of a city that knows only how to love and to fight. From Gaza of dignity, from between the shackles of the occupier, I raise my voice: is there anyone who cares? And is all we hear in our ears nothing but the whine of missiles that leave nothing standing? Shame on you, tyrant ruler — tomorrow you will surely perish.
This book is not merely a narration of our history; it is our story that I try to tell to a deaf world. These pages are not words to be read and then folded away; they are a testimony of blood and tears, a cry of pain and hope, a message from beneath the rubble to everyone who has a beating heart. I was born in a time that knows nothing but war. Perhaps I was made to dream, but dreams were not made for me.
I was not born a writer, and perhaps I will never be a professional one; I have not sought fame or applause, yet I found in writing a refuge, in the word a weapon. When I volunteered during the war in Gaza, I used to hide hope in my pockets and hand it out to children amid the bombing. I would distract them with drawing and play while the planes above deafened us. Then I worked as a correspondent, conveying what cameras do not capture: a mother’s tear as she looks at her martyred son, a bride waiting for a groom who will not return, an orphaned child clutching a picture of his father and falling silent.
Here, the truth is deeper than the news clips. Here, the martyrs’ clothes hang on the line so their scent lingers in the home. Here, words are written by trembling fingers in the dark. I write to breathe; I write because I will suffocate if I do not release the stories living inside me. I used to write with my tears; I sometimes smiled and often fell silent, because pain cannot be written.
This book is not about me alone, but about those who left without farewell — about martyrs who were not numbers but faces we knew, and names we call in our dreams. This book is a plea to the world about the love that grows among bullets, the unbearable pain, and the hope that runs like a river beneath the rubble. Dear reader, when you read these lines, know that you are not merely a reader but a partner in pain and hope. Gaza is not a passing news item; it is a beating humanitarian cause.
Let us begin together from the first page... no, from the heart.
“Asil al-Samiri” Gaza, Palestine
المزيد...
قبل 5 أشهر
بين الألم والأمل ...كتاب أبكاني ،وأضحكني ،آلمني وأرشدني ،أفهمني ...كم أنّ "على هذه الأرض من يستحق الحياة "أكثر مني ومنك !
أسرتني نسخته العربية وها أنا اليوم أقلب مقلتين بين سطور كاتبة عظيمة .🫂🌸
أسرتني نسخته العربية وها أنا اليوم أقلب مقلتين بين سطور كاتبة عظيمة .🫂🌸
