Yazan Mohammed
Yazan Mohammed is an 18-year-old high school student and poet who dreams of being an architect, with ambitions of studying engineering in Egypt.
“I write poetry to relieve my suffering, but unfortunately the pain we feel is unimaginable.”
He has three brothers. The youngest, Aser, was born during the genocide.
images via @abolishtheusa
Yazan also founded the Bridge of Solidarity, a self-described anti-capitalist mutual aid initiative in Gaza – “challenging the West’s pity economy, supporting people without phones, social media, English skills, or living family.”
You can support their winter campaigns here.
"For native people everywhere, water is life. All that we have left that the occupation cannot take is our humanity, honesty, community."
Throughout the genocide, he has written stunning analysis on what genocide has taught him about capitalism, the impact of "social media begging on youth's mental health", how the left makes Palestinians perform for donations, and genocide's effects on the eldest children of families.
His first chapbook of poems, A Beautiful Day in my Imagination, written during the ongoing genocide, is available for sale to support his campaign and family.
Read writing from Yazan
How to love yourself amidst daily life through genocide
I am not a hero
I am not always strong
Some days I cannot wake
from exhaustion
Some days I think
of everything
I have lost
But I try not to be
my own enemy
I try to clam myself
Instead of
blame myself
Perhaps war took much of my childhood
But I will not allow it
to take my heart as well
Self love
for me
is not a luxury
It is a
lifeline
It is what
keeps
me
here
Dignity, for me, is not a luxury
It is the foundation
the compass
and the road
It is enough that I am free
my inner peace is a crown
that can neither be bought
nor bargained for
I am Yazan. A young man who grew up too soon—not because I wanted to, but because war decided to turn my childhood into ashes and scatter my dreams like dust in the wind.
Every morning, I wake up to a sound that resembles an explosion, even if there’s no real bombing. My ears have grown used to echoes, and my heart has learned to live in constant worry. I search people’s eyes for signs of hope, but all I see are tired faces—faces that look just like mine.
The mirror has become my enemy. I’m afraid to look into it. Every time I get close, I see a young man with sunken eyes filled with confusion and exhaustion, lips sealed by all they’ve witnessed, a forehead heavy with sorrow before its time. That’s not me… or maybe that’s what the war has made of me.
I carry my face like proof of everything I’ve been through. Every small line on it is a moment of fear. Every distant gaze in my eyes is a memory I couldn’t forget. There’s nothing heavier than watching your friends leave this life—one after the other—without goodbye, without warning.
War hasn’t only taken those we love—it has stolen us from ourselves.
But I write, despite the pain. I write because writing is the one thing war hasn’t taken from me. I write because deep inside, there’s still a small child who insists on dreaming, on living, on breathing a life without fear.
I am Yazan, and this is my weary face… but beneath this exhaustion, my heart still beats, and I refuse to be erased.
Discover more Gaza writers & artists
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