Mahmoud Massri
Mahmoud Massri is a 23-year-old from Beit Hanoun in the north of the Strip. He was studying Biomedical Engineering at Al-Azhar University in Gaza City to serve the sick and help heal his community. This dream is now on pause as he tries to stay alive.
Over the past two years, he has tirelessly been sharing writings amidst violence and displacements, as well as photos and videos, to document the genocide and exposing its many forms of harm. This effort is something he feels compelled to do as a witness of the genocide.
Recently, Mahmoud wrote:
“When they announced a temporary truce.. and allowed us to return to Beit Hanoun.. I found my home still standing, good enough to live in temporarily. I moved back in, filled with happiness and hope that we would return to how things were before, or even better, and that we would rebuild Gaza.
I felt a deep sense of comfort, as if safety and stability had finally returned to my life. I thought, ‘Now I’m home, I won’t be displaced again, I won’t suffer and endure the pain of another forced journey.’
The very first thing I found in my house, the thing that caught my eye, was this keffiyeh, our symbol, the symbol of Palestine.
But… they bombed Beit Hanoun again, and wiped it off the map. Now it has become nothing but a desert. I have no home, no land, everything was destroyed and vanished in the blink of an eye, as if they forced me to say goodbye to what was left of my home… ”
The eldest of a family of nine, Mahmoud supports his family, made more difficult by the fact that his father is injured and unable to move. He also assists his neighboring families with food, medicine, and emotional support.
Read writing from Mahmoud
What if there were no war on Gaza?
Perhaps I would be telling you about the beauty of Gaza — about its calm sea and its kind-hearted people.
I would have spoken about our beautiful traditions, about thyme and olives, about the traditional dabke we dance in joy,
about our simple celebrations that filled our homes with laughter,
about how we used to play and have fun in our little neighborhood in Beit Hanoun, running freely, laughing wholeheartedly.
Maybe I would have mentioned the siege, but with less pain, with half the sorrow.
And maybe I wouldn’t have known anything about quadcopters or F-16s.
You wouldn’t have seen Gaza in ruins like this — you would have known it as we know it:
the most beautiful place in the world, with its generous, kind people who care for each other and love one another sincerely.
Gaza is not what you see in the news.
Gaza was — and still is — life, despite everything.
I was sitting with my father, talking to him, and I said: I wish we could return to our life before the war, to live in safety as we once did. My father looked at me with a hint of anger and said: Do you really think there was ever safety before the war?
Then he continued, his voice heavy with sorrow: In 2005, while I was sitting in front of our home in Beit Hanoun, a bullet from the occupation came from the east, from the border. It entered my back and exited through my stomach... I was just sitting in front of my house thinking I was safe, but there has never been safety for us in Gaza. Even before the war, we lived in danger every day.
And today, the suffering has only grown worse... There is no safety for us, not in our homes nor in our streets. We live in an open-air prison under the sky, where bullets are fired at us randomly. Here we are, trying to hold on to life— but safety has never been our share.
While I was searching for a place to flee with my family, I found myself gazing at our sea… the Sea of Gaza. That sea has always been, and still is, our only refuge — where our souls find peace amidst the roar of its waves and the gentle whisper of its breeze.
How beautiful were those moments when we used to sit on its shore, watching the distant horizon as if trying to escape everything happening around us. The sea would whisper serenity to us, stealing away our worries and planting in our hearts a fragment of the peace we so desperately miss in every detail of our lives.
Oh, how I long for those beautiful days… when we gathered with friends and family upon its golden sands, laughing from the depths of our hearts, exchanging stories and memories, as if we owned the whole world. The sea was a witness to our joy, a sanctuary for us, a shelter for our weary souls.
Ah, if only time could take us back to those moments… when nothing weighed on our hearts but the setting sun, and our only fear was the end of a beautiful day spent close to those we love.
Discover more Gaza writers & artists
Follow the links below to see a list of other creative individuals in the Strip to support and amplify.