Read writing from Hala

Half an Hour in Gaza
The call to prayer rises.
My brother goes out to pray at the mosque —
the same mosque the Israelis threatened to bomb many times.
A rocket sound.
We rush to the windows,
looking for my brother.
We sit,
hearts heavy with the pain of past losses,
afraid, waiting for the sound of the door unlocking.
Mohammed comes back,
smiling,
telling us how he survived death once again.

They say the price of flour has dropped.
My father hurries out to buy some.
I get up to bake a cake with what’s left of our flour — to celebrate.
I secretly add a lot of sugar,
even though only a few grains are left in the jar.
But my mother doesn’t get angry —
she’s happy,
waiting for the flour.
My father returns,
but he brings worry instead of flour.
He tells us the flour disappeared from the market by the time he arrived.

I put on my red lipstick,
trying to feel some of the femininity the war took from me.
Then my little niece comes,
and says this is the color of the blood she saw on the martyrs’ shrouds.
I pause for a moment.
Then I continue putting the blood on my lips,
unbothered.

This is not a nightmare.
Not a drama film.
It’s just half an hour
in Gaza.

Shattered Serenity
I sit alone on my rooftop at sunset
gazing at the sky.
Cold breezes kiss my face,
once gentle, once poetic.

For a moment
I feel like the whole universe is mine
and the sky, my sky
is holding me so tightly,
and softly,
making me euphoric.

But before my fantasy could
last five minutes,
as I sing Fairouz’s “A Little House in Canada,”
imagining a new life
and drowning with its beauty,
an explosion interrupts me,
shattering my song
and turning my clear sky
into a somber grey.

And without warning
it reminds me
that no matter how hard I try
to fly away, far away,
even only with my imagination,
this voice will come after me
and pull me back to my reality.

I can hear it whispering to me
that fear will still be my companion,
that being here alone,
at this hour,
is not serenity
but danger.

Read some of Hala’s articles:

Al Jazeera - My nephew asks if he will eat meat only in heaven. I struggle to answer

The Electronic Intifada - May Ruaa’s memory be forever green

Mondoweiss - Eid in Gaza: Joy tainted by blood

We Are Not Numbers - How trauma became part of our lives