Tal al-Hawa, Southern Rimal
names now etched in fire and rubble,
caught in the crosshairs of a genocide.
I am from Zarnouqa, in the occupied Ramleh district.
Born in the Nuseirat camp,
I built a life with my husband and children
in Southern Rimal,
where every heartbeat echoed the streets of Tal al-Hawa.
There, we lived not just in houses
we lived in each other’s laughter,
in the shared warmth of sidewalks and shopfronts,
in the soft, unspoken language of belonging.
Al-Quds Hospital —
where I saw my face reborn
in the eyes of my daughters as they entered the world.
Their school stood not far
next to the bakery that woke the neighborhood each dawn,
the falafel shop where greetings came before prices,
and the qatayef seller who hung lights on the door for Ramadan.
The man who sold Awwama (sweety dessert) in winter.
and Mazaj coffee shop
that holy brew spiced with cardamom,
poured straight into the heart, not the cup.
The queen of all coffees.
When the days grew heavy with sorrow,
I would slip out into Tal al-Hawa’s night
alone, yet never lonely.
The streets held me.
Their silence was a song I knew.
Their darkness, a friend.
The cool air would kiss my cheeks,
and lift the weight from my chest.
On the way home,
I’d stop at the falafel shop
always crowded, always alive.
But they’d serve me first.
Not out of pity,
but out of something older
something sacred.
This land’s children will not allow you to wait
When you are a woman
I never saw it as a wound to my feminism.
I saw it as an anchor
Roots
one more thread tying me
to this land I’ve never left,
this home I’ve never doubted.
And Gaza
beautiful Gaza
Habibti Gaza
is burned, shattered,
but never erased.
Gaza is perished, never dead.
Gaza is destroyed, but never dies.