To the hearts that endure, the hands that hold strong, this poem is for you, Palestine. May you find peace, as vast and endless as the sky.

O children of Gaza
Your faces are curtained with Noor
Much brighter than the blue cubicle partitions  
That you poked holes into with your tiny fingers 
To gaze at your parents’ faces
As they lie cold on the surgeon’s table.
You were too afraid to shed a tear 
In case the names inked onto your arms faded
Before you could memorize the letters 
That you hadn’t been taught to read yet.

O mothers of Gaza 
The abode of the righteous lies beneath your feet.
In the fathomless darkness, you lit kerosene lamps 
To remove debris from the single pound of flour and sugar, 
Having stored them in the cracks of fractured walls
In case your home collapsed overnight 
And your children awakened to your body wrapped in a white shroud—
You wished to leave them sustenance and sweetness amidst it all. 
You nursed the martyrs,
Buried their wounded souls in the folds of your hijab
As “Mama” has not a face, but a heart that bleeds 
Upon the sight of discolored cheeks
And the empty pages of coloring books,
Their imaginations never had the chance to meet. 

O fathers of Gaza
You’ve spaded the earth into the graves of your beloveds, 
Carried your children atop your shoulders
Hoping they would peek over the cotton lakes 
And ask the Almighty to descend His mercy upon the 
Descendants of the land scented with lemons and dried figs
For only He knows of the grief that burdens your heart
And the blemishes on your knees that tally the hours 
Spent performing the Janazah for the brothers and sisters 
Scattered across the pebbled streets.

O Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta’ala
You’ve harbored their souls in the bellies of green birds
Nested in the chandeliers that hang from your throne
You’ve granted them the freedom to wander about in Paradise
Above the rivers of honey and milk flowing through 
The gardens of fragrant blooms and radiant pearls 
And indeed that is what they deserve 
For they’ve stood before you in the ruins of hospitals and mosques 
With their palms raised and hearts softened,
Uttering the words,
Alhamdulillah for everything 

O mankind  
In the darkest night, 
Illuminate your hearts with compassion
And cleanse your soul with the grief that lingers 
In the absence of your loved ones
So many of us have died in masses 
As the living are not solely dependent on life, 
But also the humanity that guards one’s soul.
For Gaza is a test of our moral conscience 
So you must sit with the grief of a Palestinian mother
And steady the shoulders of a Palestinian father 
As you would with any other.
Heed the cries of a Palestinian child
For they do not shed tears for lost toys, 
Rather their homes and their families 
Even before the loss of their cherished youth.

And so tonight, 
When Allah releases another flock of birds 
Into the opened gates of Paradise, 
Think of not only what has been lost
But what will be forgotten 
If we unearth the olive grove 
Before bathing in its fragrance.

Here & Now: Girls Write Now 2024 Anthology

Do not read this book, unless you want to know what real humans are thinking. Taking poetic license to express things in ways that make AI fear it will be replaced by humans, the stories in these pages reflect the here and now: a collective urgency as the pandemic recedes, the world overheats, wars overwhelm, and the national discourse is conducted in a language far from love. In these pieces, cooking unites families, supermarkets become places of connection and adventure, neighbors evolve into mermaids as the sea levels rise, and every month nails are trimmed to cut down memory. The smallest gifts in life become impossible blessings of gratitude. There is a sense of battle with the norms and an understanding that things are not right, but they will be. This anthology is evidence of a future worth fighting for in which the long tradition of building community through the written word is upheld during the highs, lows, and everything in between.

read here & now

Process

The relentless horrors and suffering in Palestine overwhelmed me, leaving me feeling helpless and filled with immense pain. The atrocities playing out before my eyes, especially the suffering of children, families, and the innocent, brought a sense of unimaginable grief. There were days when I simply couldn’t find the strength to go on. However, my faith offered solace. One day, while searching for comfort in the Qur’an, I read the verse, “Never think of those martyred in the cause of Allah as dead. In fact, they are alive with their Lord, well provided for” (Al Qur’an, 3:169).

This verse breathed new life into my spirit. It reminded me that even in the darkest hours, faith and hope endure. Inspired by this revelation, I began to write “Birds in Paradise”. I wanted to give voice to the voiceless and find a way to honor the lives lost in this unjust struggle. In the process, I discovered the power of writing to channel pain and suffering into something meaningful—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit.