الحرب لا تنتهي

Posted on May 17, 2025 by Najlaa

هذا نص أجيب به عن نص كتبته سابقا ، الحرب تنتهي غدا

لم أكن أعلم أن الحرب لا تنتهي، ولم أكن مثقفة في تاريخي بما يكفي لأمتلك عقيدة المؤمن الذي يدرك حق اليقين أن حربًا بدأت قبل عقود ولم تنتهِ بعد. كنت أنجرف خلف البدايات وصعوبتها، وكما حدث في 2008 وما بعدها، ظننت أنها جولات تصعيدية وستنتهي. لم أكن أعلم أننا كنا – وما زلنا – نُمحى، وأننا، بأية طريقة، نُقتلع من جذورنا. فمن هاجر كفرًا بما كان، لم يعرف – كما لم أكن أعرف – أننا دُفعنا قسرًا إلى الرحيل، لا رغبةً.

واليوم، لا يمكنني أن أتخيل نفسي أقول إن الحرب ستنتهي غدًا. لا حرب تنتهي. إنها تبقى حيّة في قلب كل أم فقدت طفلها، وكل زوجة بكت حبيبها، تطفح الأرض بالدماء، فكيف لي أن أقول إن الحرب قد تنتهي، وأن أجراس العودة ستقرع من جديد، أو أن المآذن سترتفع بالأذان كما اعتادت؟ كيف أقول ذلك، والباعة المتجولون لن تصدح أصواتهم في الأزقة: “يلا بندورة، يلا بطيخ”…؟ لم يبقَ في الحارات المزروعة لا بطيخ ولا عربات، ولا باعة. لم يعد هناك “سوق الزاوية”، ولم يبقَ شيء يُدعى “بهارات”؛ كلها تبخرت أو دفنت في أعماق الأرض مع كل جسد نسج الأرض بغرزات دمه وشرايين قلبه.

لا حرب تنتهي وهي مفتوحة على مصراعيها. أيُّ اتفاقٍ هذا الذي يمكن أن يعيد من كان لنا دفء روح في الغياب؟ أو أيامًا تَمحو ما وُلدنا عليه من جديد؟ إن كانت للحياة والموت أساسات، فالموت عندنا هو أساس الولادة. فتخيّل ما هو الموت إذا مشى حيًّا بيننا.

لا أقول إننا يائسون، أو متعبون، أو مرهقون. بل أقول: نحن أموات. أموات صعدوا إلى سماء الله، وأموات يوقظون خزي العالم وعاره في وجدان الأحياء الهائمين بخطاباتهم

عندما كنت أسمع قصيدة درويش: “مشى الخوف ومشيتُ به حافيًا”، لم أكن ألقي بالًا لكل الكلمات التي جاءت بعد هذا المقطع. كنت أسمعه، لكنني لا أعيه. حتى جاءت اللحظة: لحظة التململ من روتين العمل، حين أصبحت أرى… ولا أرى.

أُعيد المقطع مرارًا، وهو يترافق مع إشعارات “التليجرام”: عشرة شهداء، مئة شهيد، مئة وخمسون في كل ساعة، في كل دقيقة. نعم، نحن نرى… لكننا لا نرى. الكل يتغافل عمّا يراه، وكأن موت مئة شهيد يوميًا أصبح شيئًا عاديًا.

موتنا أصبح أقل من عادي، يا درويش، ويا كلّ الشعراء، وكلّ الذين ظنّوا أن للكلمات قدرة على الإنقاذ. لو كنا أكثر حظًا، لذُكرنا في صفحات التواصل لساعة… أو ساعتين. نرى ولا نرى. نرى ولا نرى

لا حرب تنتهي… فقد رحل كلُّ من كان، وكلُّ من ظل، رحل..

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Tomorrow the war ends

Posted on May 17, 2025 by Najlaa

“I wrote this in Gaza in 2014. I didn’t know the war would never end.”

Although I ask my family what date it is every day, and I look it up myself whenever I can, I always forget within a few short moments.

And so I didn’t exactly know the day, or the date, or the time. My phone was out of power. The night was as normal as any other in Gaza, or so I imagined it to be. No electricity, true, but this is nothing new. Perhaps it’s new for the length of the outage to stretch from hours into days, but still this is normal. There were no sounds of bombardment, or gunfire, or screams, only the sounds of drone aircraft. This, too, has become a normal occurrence, as these planes always circle above the skies of Gaza.

I sat in my room, thinking of this idea of normality. The house was quiet, enough to hear the sound of the night breathing between your limbs. Staring into the darkness of the room, you can avoid thinking of any images of death past or present that you might have seen.

The electrical current returned, though I heard no sounds of rejoicing as used to happen. The noise of televisions did not come from the walls of our neighbours’ houses. All I heard was my mother’s footfalls as she ran to plug in the refrigerator and check that we had water. The beautiful thing is that my mother’s running is something normal – it happens every day when the power comes back. Each of my siblings grabs his or her laptop or smart phone with a sigh, hoping to make use of the minutes of current to play, read, or write on their social media accounts about Gaza. This happens every day.

I convince myself, this time, that we are going about our daily lives, and that this sudden war will end tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, or the day after the day after tomorrow. I don’t know how long the thought had managed to settle in my mind before it flipped head over heels as the whole house shook. The books flew off their shelves, and the sound of a harsh blast made me jump from my bed and head into the living room. I asked, at the same time as the rest of my family: “Where is the strike? It must be close by…”

In a single second, the idea of normality is gone. We sat together, looking at each other, unable to cry or comment. One of us flipped through the channels, and we watched in grief and pain.

The sounds of the bombardment grew louder, as each one of us made a visible effort to withstand it. The closer each explosion came, the more we were struck by a single thought: is it our turn next?

When will there be a truce? Will there be a truce?

Not a day goes by without each of us asking that question. Each of us wants to go about our lives, just as we all know that everyone in Gaza wants to go about their lives.

I still don’t know what day it is, or the date, or the time. I have moved beyond the cycle of time. Day and night are no longer fixed. In war, you sleep at any time and are awakened at all times. It is war, and nothing else, and this is what we don’t want to admit. My mother goes to work and returns with two narratives, the first of life in the city that has gone to sleep and the other of the struggle to exist. In the streets there are houses transformed into ashes. The alleyways of the city are filled with piles of rubble, with memories of entire families buried beneath them. On another sidewalk, people search for food to give their children, urging their hearts to beat faster to show all generations that the meaning of survival is life.

I live in the middle of the city. It’s no more secure than any other region of Gaza City, yet people threatened with evacuation have travelled here. Along the street, houses have swelled with the displaced. Those who have fled look for help, settling by the dozens in storerooms and closets. They spend their time looking for a resolution that is surely close by, telling their children: tomorrow, the war ends. In doing so, they repeat what our grandparents said after 1948: tomorrow, we return.

Every person thus uprooted gathers two forms of sadness in his or her face. The first is the one we all experience, with each bombardment or loss. The second is the sadness of a personal loss, whether of stones or of flesh and blood, for the stones gave them shelter and contained the story of their lives.

Tomorrow the war ends. They win out over their sadness with this idea, and draw from it hope for tomorrow, a tomorrow that might return them to the threshold of the houses where they were born. They might not manage to forget the moment when their hearts were shattered into so many fragments, as they fled under the sounds of the bombardment, whether they were from Shajaiyya, Zaytoun, Tufah, or any place in all-too-small Gaza.

Tomorrow the war ends, and the city breathes in the mornings once again. Its mosques and churches go back to their prayers, as the city bids farewell to its martyrs. The sadness is broken by hope, which cannot help but rise again. The war will end, and the martyrs will guard the gate of heaven against any more deaths. The young will go to school carrying their bags, and run about in the yard. The war will end, and the wandering salesmen will go back to hawking their wares. The city’s famed hummus and falafel stores will open, and the Zawiya market will be filled with vendors and shoppers. People will buy their flour and their spices, and go on. Tomorrow the war ends, and the chroniclers will write at the top of their pages that the date the 2014 Gaza War ended was—

Translated from the Arabic by Andrew Leb

was publish in news statement man

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Living in the Shadow of War

Posted on April 16, 2025 by Najlaa

How do we live while others are dying?

I sat in front of my laptop, trying to figure out how to prioritize my tasks. I have a long to-do list. At the top of it: study for my Icelandic exam and practice using a new rendering program. But the moment I opened my screen, I was immediately hit with a wave of guilt.

It’s not new to say that life for any Palestinian has changed since October 7th, 2023. I was supposed to be thinking about my family in Gaza — but instead, I found myself consumed with the desire to succeed. The battle for life and death somehow turned into a battle to achieve whatever I could. And the truth is, no one knows when the next rocket will hit.

I’m not in Gaza, nor even close to it. But I live a life that constantly pushes me to the edge of madness. I don’t know what’s right and what’s not. Should I go to bingo night at my kids’ school? Should I socialize at work? Or am I supposed to boycott life in order to stand with my people in Gaza?

What is right, and what is wrong?

Would it be shameful not to attend a protest? But then again, I have to be with my kids, help with their studies, make sure they are okay. Is that selfish? Am I allowed to live a normal life? Or should I, as Darwish wrote in his poems, always remember while eating that someone else is starving?

I keep confirming that I’ll attend the next protest. I set the alarm. I prepare myself mentally. But when the time comes, I get so emotionally overwhelmed that I just can’t go. The truth is, these protests make me vulnerable — they break me open. I can’t act like myself. And on another level, I dread the inevitable questions: How are you? How’s your family? I can’t keep repeating it over and over. Because my family is not just my parents.

We’re a family-oriented community. We were raised in extended families. We grew up with our cousins; our aunts are our second mothers. They were always at our home. We lived together — we still do. Everyone in Gaza knows everyone. So no, if my parents are out, that doesn’t mean I’m okay. My brother is still there. My cousins, my neighbors, the people I shared childhood memories with — they are all there. That is my home. My land. My country. It’s not a thing. It’s everything.

I’m not sharing this to gain pity or sympathy. I just want to understand: how are we supposed to live while others are dying?

If this genocide wasn’t happening in Gaza, would I feel the same way? Or would I, like so many others, just go on with my days as if nothing had changed?

I walk through a world that asks me to carry on, smile, be productive — while part of me is frozen in grief. My body is here, going through the motions, but my heart is elsewhere — split, scattered across borders and memories. Sometimes, I envy those who can turn away, who can scroll past without feeling a thing.

The only thing I truly wish is that I could go back in time — but I know that’s not possible. I also know how difficult life will be even after a ceasefire. The echo of war will continue to reverberate within us — an echo that never leaves. It’s the sound that comes every time a plane flies overhead, or fireworks light up the sky. Every sound becomes a sound of war. Every action becomes a trigger for those days we can never forget.

I’ve been in this deep hole since long before 2023. So I wonder: how will it be for those who survive — inshallah — this genocide? What kind of world will they inherit? And how do we rebuild from a place where even memory feels like a battlefield?

What would you do if this was your people? Your family?

Mahmoud Darwish – “Think of Others”

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others
(do not forget the pigeon’s food).

As you conduct your wars, think of others
(do not forget those who seek peace).

As you pay your water bill, think of others
(those who are nursed by clouds).

As you return home, to your home, think of others
(do not forget the people of the camps).

As you sleep and count the stars, think of others
(those who have nowhere to sleep).

As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others
(those who have lost the right to speak).

As you think of others far away, think of yourself
(say: “If only I were a candle in the dark.”)

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 Article for Women’s March on International Women’s Day for Peace and Equality

Posted on March 24, 2025 by Najlaa

Najlaa Attaallah (8th March 2025)

Access to the Icelandic translation her

Title: There is no peace in a world that accepts genocide

I stand before you with a great weight on my shoulders; for I carry my country on my shoulders. This is a burden I was born with – a heaviness that every Palestinian carries from childhood to adulthood. You cannot see my weight, my heavy heart… but know this: it shapes all that I am. It is part of me.

I escaped from Gaza to Iceland six years ago. I made it to safety; I survived. But I carry my country with me, always. Day after day, the weight grows heavier – and with it, the responsibility to speak for those who are being silenced. I know you have heard the cries of Palestinian mothers, pleading for their children’s lives on the news. I know you have seen images of children holding their dead siblings in their arms. And yet, the world debates whether we Palestinians have the right to live. Now the enemy and its allies are discussing how to use the little land we Palestinians have left, and yet again discussing whether we the indigenous people of Palestine do even have rights to live on our land; history is repeating itself in front of our eyes. Many in Gaza have lost faith in the world. I do not blame them. But I speak to you today, a Palestinian woman outside of Gaza, who lives in an unoccupied country, Iceland. This means I have a voice – thus I can speak for those of my people who are being silenced. I can speak for those whose pain has been ignored.

Those who come from war-torn countries know the weight to carry one´s country on one´s shoulders. But we Palestinians know it all too well. For we Palestinians have had to endure the longest ongoing genocide in history. The Arabic word qahar, which means oppression, seeps into every cell of our bodies, and lingers in every breath we Palestinians take. Us Palestinians live under regular attacks, under occupation, under tyranny. The weight gets heavier with every decade, every year, every month. And since the last attack of the Israelis against my nation, I have never felt so unbearably burdened. Not just by the loss of my people, my land, my city, my past – but by the cold reality that I can do nothing to stop the loss; do nothing to save those women, men and children, who are still trapped, brutalized, starved, tortured, and killed. And to carry such a heavy burden is to carry aching fear. I am afraid to call my family and friends in Gaza. Afraid to call and ask… “How are you?” Because that would be the silliest question. How can you ask a person amid a genocide the question: “How are you?”

Today we Palestinians are always on edge, knowing that at any moment, the ceasefire will collapse. And let me tell you this: Before or after the ceasefire… we are NOT okay. How could we be? When we don’t know what the sky holds for us next: A rocket? A so-called “humanitarian aid” drop that kills more than it saves? Or a bomb that takes an entire family to their Creator? We do not have words of encouragement left in this hypocritical world. Twenty-nine years ago, the world watched a genocide in Bosnia and Herzegovina and said: “Never again.” We watched a genocide in Rwanda. Cambodia and said: “Never again.” Still, now we are watching a live genocide playing in front or eyes – again. How can this be? Is it because the world in the 21st century denies calling things by their true name? The world does not speak of Israelis genocide against the Palestinians. No, the world keeps repeating that: “There is a conflict between Israel and Palestine.” But it is NOT a conflict: it is a military occupation; it is an ethnic cleansing; a genocide! What else do you call an oppression where indigenous people are driven from their land and denied the right to return – while a group with no historical connection is given the land – purely based on its religion. What else do you call a murder of a whole nation; a constant deliberate destruction of a nation based on their ethnic background? For decades we have been murdered, raped, illegally imprisoned and tortured, poisoned, denied freedom of movement, denied basic human rights, while our homes, our sacred buildings, historical sites and natural resources are being stolen from us. You call it for what it is, a genocide.

 For over 76 years the world has been debating silently whether we Palestine have basic human rights. All the while are we are being silenced; being literally erased from this earth.  But history does not forget. We need only to look at the numbers: 1917: A Zionist state is established in Palestine by the imperialist empire Britain. 1948: The ethnic cleansing called Nakba took place, when more than 750,000 Palestinians were forcibly displaced from their lands and homes, villages were destroyed, and thousands of Palestinians were massacred. Since 1948, the occupation has only tightened its grip, year by year, decade by decade. Then in the year of 2023 the ethnic cleansing of my people took on a new and more brutal form, when the Israelis killed innocent civilians, in such great numbers in such a short time, that is unseen in history of mankind and destroyed a whole city! This destruction was played out with the financial help and moral support of many nations – thus our enemy was not only allowed to kill us in front of the world, but did so with the blessing of many. Since 2023, the Israelians have killed over 50,000 Palestinians. Over 12,000 women have been killed – and even more women have become homeless, have become widows – or mothers who have lost their children. More than 15,000 Palestinian children have been murdered by the Israelis. And yet…still the world debates whether Palestinian children deserve protection – or to put it more bluntly; the world is debating whether Palestinian children deserve to live.

Some who watch this genocide with horror, say: „Has the world gone mad?“ No, I say; this is not madness – this is a well-planned evil. Genocide is never an accident played out by mad people. It is planned. It is funded. It is played out with great precision. This is a deliberate ethnic cleansing. My enemy wants the world to believe that this an uncontrollable chaos that they are trying to control; a conflict they call it. But no—the enemy is in full control. Their goal is clear: To exterminate Palestinians by removing us from our land –by killing us. We are not even given the freedom to escape to try to survive, for are locked inside a human cage called Gaza, waiting for the final blow.

I tell myself every day: “Be brave, Najlaa.” Be brave for those who cannot afford to be. But I confess… I too have pain. I too feel powerless. I too feel skeptical. But pain also pushes me to speak. Hoping that somewhere… my words will break through. That somewhere… someone will listen. As a woman from a city and a country that has been under occupation for more than 76 years, I say to you: You will never understand الخُذلان / betrayal and القهر  / oppression brought by genocide through history books – for remember, history is written by the victors. To understand such violence, you must listen to the voices of genocide survivors. Then you will hear the history of those who stand still in history; those who cannot leave the past behind – those who cannot move on. My question to you is: are you willing to listen to the lived experience of Palestinians who are amid a genocide? And if so, are you willing to honor their pain by hearing their call for your help – and act? If not so – then I question your humanity.

I carry my country on my shoulders. Today I am asking you, if you will share my burden. And in the light of Women´s International Day, I specifically call out to Icelandic women to act against the Israelian genocide against the Palestinians. Not only for the sake of Palestinians women but for the sake of humanity. We must recognize the role of women in this fight. Wars are started by men, but their greatest victims are women and children. Women carry the grief; women lead the resistance. But unfortunately, we women do not have much of a voice. But, today on International Women’s Day, we reclaim our voices. Im a Palestinian woman, say with my voice; We women of Iceland must act. Sympathy is not enough. We women know this all too well; the international women´s fight for feminism was not built on sympathy – it was built on the actions of brave women! We women must speak out and by doing so we act. We must demand change and justice, and the best way to do so is holding our Icelandic leaders accountable: By doing so we are recognizing that the fight for justice is global. War and oppression do not exist in isolation. I repeat war and oppression don’t exist in isolation. In a world where genocide is allowed to happen there is no peace, no justice, no equality. Palestine. Sudan. Congo. Ukraine. Afghanistan. They are all connected. The world can’t pick and choose whose lives deserve dignity – we must stand together, as one. Unity is the core of the international feminism – and should be used as a tool in our fight against imperialism.

As I speak these words, a Palestinian refugee woman, who was driven away from her home – to Iceland, a nation that prides itself on equality; I am sorry to say, that I am not free. For how can I be free when I was forced to leave my home; how can I be free when my nation is not? Iceland is a free nation; therefore, it has as a country the freedom of using it´s voice to the world. I ask you Iceland, and specifically women of Iceland, who for centuries had to fight for their own basic human rights; I ask you to hear my call: Use your voice to call for peace.

Free Palestine.

Free Sudan.

Free Congo.

Free Ukraine.

Free Palestine.

Free the world.

فلسطين حرة، العالم حر.

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غزة – لسنا كلنا واحد

Posted on January 30, 2025 by Najlaa

Access to the English from here.

لقد مضى أكثر من عام وأنا أحاول جاهدة أن أصدق ما يحدث، أحاول أن أجد مبررًا واحدًا لهذا العالم الذي نعيش فيه، لا أجد أي إجابة، الكثير من الأسئلة التي تختزل إلى حقيقة واحدة: “لسنا كلنا واحد”. الحقيقة التي كنا نداريها ونحاول ألا نعترف بها، لم يكن ولن يكون الأبيض كالبني، والبني كالأسود.

أتذكر بشكل مكثف اليوم الذي سألتني فيه صديقتي العزيزة من كوسوفو، وهي مستغربة: “كيف لا تكونين أنتِ بيضاء؟”. لم تكن تعرف في ذلك الوقت أن التصنيف حسب البشرة تخطى الأبيض والأسود، وأُضيف إليه البني والبرتقالي، وأننا نعيش في هذا العالم وفقًا لهذا التصنيف، حتى لو لم يكن ضمن المقررات المدرسية أو معلنًا في الاتفاقيات المبرمة بين الدول.

اليوم، بعد مضي ما يزيد عن خمس سنوات، تعرف صديقتي ماذا يعني هذا تمامًا. تعرف ماذا يعني أن تكون شرقيًا، وماذا يعني بتفصيل أكثر أن تكون عربيًا، وتعرف أكثر وأكثر ماذا يعني أن تكون فلسطينيًا، لاجئًا، وما زلت تحاول أن تجد فرصة للنجاة. تعرف ماذا يعني أن تكون فلسطينيًا من الضفة أو من الداخل المحتل، تعرف تمامًا ماذا يعني أن تكون مقدسيًا أو تدرك أكثر ماذا يعني أن تكون فلسطينيًا من غزة. بل تيقنت أن فرصة الحياة تُقاس بمعايير آدمية مجهولة المصدر والتاريخ.

\أكتب وأنا أنظر من خلال النافذة، وأفكر: هل حقًا البلد التي أعيش فيها حاليًا من الأكثر جودة ورفاهية؟ كيف هذا وأنا للتو أغلقت الهاتف مع أحدهم، وقد كان يفتقر إلى أدنى مستويات التعاطف والإنسانية؟ أو ربما أنا التي أصبحت أتحسس من كل شيء وأشعر برغبة في البكاء في كل لحظة وكل حين.

هذا حالي منذ السابع من أكتوبر، أحاول أن ألملم أذيال خيبتي وأستجمع قواي، أحاول أن أدفن الخزي الذي أشعر به، لقد نجوت وخلفي ملايين من أهلي وأحبتي، ممن يتنفسون ما بقي من عمرهم بجوع، ألم، وقهر. أنظر إلى قوس قزح الذي شق البحيرة التي أمامي، ولا أرى إلا السواد يبتلع النهار وينبئ بموت جديد.

كل يوم هو إشعار جديد بمجزرة راح ضحيتها العشرات، وهذا إشعار آخر بمجزرة أخرى. وهذا كل من هو من أرض السلام، يستيقظ على طنين إشعار بموت عشرات ممن قد يكونون لعبوا معه في الحارة الغميضة، وينام على صوت صحفي يلهث تعبًا وهو يتلو أسماء عشرات آخرين ممن التحقوا بقافلة الشهداء.كيف لي أن أتصالح مع هذا العالم بعد هذا العام؟

كيف لي أن أتصالح مع هذا العالم بعد هذا العام؟

كيف لي أن أرى الناس بنفس العيون وأنا أراهم لا يأبهون؟

كيف لي أن أصافح من لا يبدي أدنى اهتمام بموت اللآلاف المؤلفة؟

كيف لي أن أكون هادئة، رصينة، وأنا أرى حولي الإنسان يغضب من سفاسف الأمور، غير آبه بأن على هذه الأرض حربا أودت ومازالت تودي بحياة آلاف الأطفال الذين قتلوا لأنهم فقط مجنسون باسم فلسطيني؟

لا أستطيع أن أصدق ما نعيشه في الوقت الراهن، وأكاد أكذّب كل من يقول إنه مر ما يزيد عن العام. الكثير من المترادفات والأسئلة اختلفت، العام الماضي كتبت مقالًا بعد إنهاء مكالمة مع أخي أقول فيه: “وين بدنا نروح؟”. اليوم، عندما أهاتف أخي الذي ما زال في مدينة غزة، لا أقول شيئًا، ولا يقول هو شيئًا، فقط أسمع صوت أنفاسه، وأعلم أنه ما زال على قيد الحياة.

اليوم، أهل غزة بدلًا من أن يسألوا: “وين بدنا نروح؟”، يسألون: “متى ستبتلع الأرض من بقي عليها؟”.

لا أتخيل أنني أكتب هذا، ولا أتخيل أنه ما زال هناك سيل من الكلمات ليُقال. لا أستطيع أن أتصور أنني في عام 2014 كتبت في مقال: “نريد الحق في الحياة لا الحق في اللا موت”. اليوم لا أملك إلا أن أكتب أن أهل غزة يستجدون الموت رحمة من الخذلان.

لم يعد للحياة أو الموت قيمة بعد أن سقط القناع، وتبدت من خلفه غيلان الجحيم التي فتكت بكل حي، إنسانًا كان أو أي شيء آخر.

يا الله، كم من هذا المداد من الكلمات لن يشفي غليل مكلوم؟ أنا أعتذر منكم أني تجرأت على الكتابة. فها أنا من موقعي هذا أرى أن الحياة لم تعد كما صُوّرت في الأدب وخيال المثقفين، لم يعد التغني بالعدالة والمساواة يُجدي نفعًا والناس تحترق أحياء دون أدنى تجاوب لإيقاف هذا الجحيم المسعور.

نعم، نحن الفلسطينيون، أو على الأقل أنا، فقدت الثقة في كل المنظومات الحقوقية، فقدت الثقة بالإنسانية وكل ما وُلِد معها. اليوم، كإنسانة ناجية من محرقة العالم الحديث، بتُّ أخشى حتى من القول إنني نجوت، بتُّ أشعر بالخجل من كوني استطعت الفرار إلى الأمان وخلفي الملايين، بتُّ أخشى مواجهة هذا العالم الذي ينتظر مني أن أبرر لماذا نجوت، ويريد مني أن أقف هناك كالمتفرج البائس الذي لا يملك أدنى حق.

نعم، أنا نجوت وخلفي كل أحبتي يحترقون قهرًا.

كإنسانة ناجية، بتُّ أشك في كل ما يدور من حولي. باتت الحياة عبارة عن معارك متتالية نخوضها، لا لننجو أو ننتصر، بل لكي يُنظر إلينا بأن فرصة النجاة التي وُهبت لنا لم تضع هباء.

الحقيقة أن هذه الفرصة اجتثثناها من الجذور ولم توهب لنا. نعلم يقينًا الآن أنه لم يقف أحد معنا، ولا يملك أحد فضلًا علينا. من بقي في غزة ينتظر الموت، ومن خرج من غزة يصارع للنجاة بروحه.

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The souls of angels

Posted on January 17, 2025 by Najlaa

Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

It is certain that each of us has experienced plenty of moments where we felt loved. We just need to reflect on our memories to discover how we have been showered with love and care. From the moment we were in our mothers’ wombs to the time we are laid to rest beneath the ground, love surrounds us.

Throughout my long life, I have always felt loved by my family. Nonetheless, the respect for who I am and the choices I have made in life has been deeply meaningful. These moments are indescribable and cannot be summarized in one or two specific instances. We feel it because it is evident and cannot be hidden, no matter the shade of our skin.

The care your parents show from the moment you are conceived surpasses every hug, kiss, or even discipline. It is a true reflection of their unconditional love and limitless generosity.

The moments I cherish the most, which uplift my mood and mindset every day, are the smiles I see on my children’s faces when I pick them up from school, serve them a warm meal, or care for them. The younger they are, the more openly they express their love and warm feelings. These moments cannot be bought or bargained for; they come naturally as part of the bond you create when you share your deep love with them.

To my dear children,

Never forget how truly great you are. Remember, it is never a sign of vulnerability to hug, kiss, and express your love and feelings to your parents. You do it so naturally now, with innocence and purity that nothing can taint.

I know the journey ahead won’t always be easy, and the ugliness of this world may try to dim your light. But hold on to your purity, your clarity, and your kind hearts. These are your greatest strengths, and they will guide you through even the hardest times.

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Life is not a right that can be demanded.

Posted on January 6, 2025 by Najlaa

If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?

I plead for one thing: stop the violence and wars around the world. My beloved city, Gaza, has been under attack since October 7th, with over 6% of its population targeted and most of the city reduced to rubble.

It makes no sense that for decades we have regretted our failure to stop the atrocities and genocides of the last century, yet today, with all the power at our disposal, we are still unable to prevent ethnic cleansing and widespread destruction.

You, me, and everyone with the power to speak up must raise our voices and continue writing to call for an end to all barbaric attacks on innocent people around the world, especially in Gaza.

The least we can do is write on our board the right to a decent life with minimum living standards. It is such a simple request: let us live

To live should not have to be requested; we are born with free will, a gift given to us naturally. No one has the right to steal it from the most vulnerable, especially through advanced technology or the superiority complexes humans have created out of their own greed.

My free board will say: Stop the war. Stop taking lives simply because people are different or to serve political and economic agendas.

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Staying Alive and Tolerance

Posted on January 4, 2025 by Najlaa

What are your biggest challenges?

Today, I decided to answer this prompt’s question, as I have been thinking a lot about it recently. My goal each year has been to become more tolerant. With the beginning of this year, I have been deeply wondering how I could be more tolerant toward myself and the whole world.

I do believe that the reality of living under occupation makes achieving tolerance much harder. Witnessing genocide turns this goal into something nearly impossible. I cannot be as tolerant as I was two years ago. How could I be, when my nation is being killed and left to face the most advanced and powerful army in the world alone? How can I be tolerant when hundreds of my people are killed daily, subjected to the worst atrocities and actions imaginable?

I have expressed feeling ashamed for surviving while being unable to do anything for the people closest to me. My brother is still in the northern part of the Gaza Strip, facing daily attacks alone. It is so hard for us to live without being hurt and in pain. Staying alive has become a tremendous effort and a real challenge to cope with the ugly face of this world.

Staying alive and being tolerant is my biggest challenge in life right now. With full hope, I wish I could forgive this world for allowing an army to commit ethnic cleansing against peaceful citizens whose only ‘guilt’ is being born Palestinian. The people of Gaza have never harmed anyone, and it is deeply unfair for others to allow this to happen and to remain silent in the face of collective punishment inflicted on innocent people.

I, like anyone reading this, want to live in harmony and equality, where every nation is treated the same as others. We are all the same, even if we have different ethnicities and religions.

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My home town

Posted on December 31, 2024 by Najlaa

What makes you feel nostalgic?

These days, I find myself deeply nostalgic for my hometown, Gaza. Every memory reminds me of how fortunate we were to grow up in this city and to carry the identity of being Palestinian. It feels like a profound privilege to have a meaningful cause to stand for in life, even though it often comes with pain and heartbreak, sometimes in fleeting moments and sometimes in overwhelming waves.

In recent years, I have often dreamed of the moment I could return to my city and visit every place tied to my memories. For me, these places are not just landmarks but living, breathing symbols of beauty and inspiration. I miss the neighborhoods where I used to walk and the cafés where I would spend quiet moments alone.

Today, I no longer have the right to plan my first trip back to my beloved city, Gaza. That right has been stripped from us. We are, quite literally, homeless, as our country and city have been taken and destroyed. They have erased almost every trace of life that once existed there.

Now, I feel more depressed and nostalgic than ever, longing not just for my city but for my dreams as well. It’s not just about my desire to visit Gaza; it’s about wanting our people, families, and loved ones to return to their homes and live their lives—not trembling in fear or sheltering in tents. Those of us with hearts and minds know that the genocide must end. Palestinians deserve to reclaim their land, their homes, and their lives.

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Everyone and no one

Posted on December 25, 2024 by Najlaa

Who is the biggest influence in your life

When I was young, answering such questions was much simpler. It was actually a must-answer question at a certain age in our lives. I believe I have answered this a couple of times before. Naturally, the answer would be often relate to maturity and mental growth. For example, in the early years of childhood, the source of inspiration would undoubtedly be someone from the closest circle—most likely a family member. But now, after decades of reading and experiencing life, I might say, though not with certainty: everyone and no one.

Everyone is a compilation of complex life experiences that lead them to become the person they are now, a person who can still change based on life’s rapid cycles. Everyone has something to reflect on and to share, which could serve as inspiration for others. On the other hand, no one, because I have come to a point where I do not need to rely on others to move forward. I just need to focus on myself to be the best version of me and to avoid causing harm. At the same time, it is nearly impossible to protect ourselves entirely from external influences that damage our self-image and push us into red zones.

Reaching the red zones and venturing into dark areas of thought often compels us to go back and seek inspiration from certain people. It’s a reminder that, even when striving for independence, there are moments when external connections play a vital role in our journey.

Daily writing prompt
Who are the biggest influences in your life?
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