"The war began the week of my 26th birthday. There was a lightness on that day, something born from what remained of our childhood. Sparks like candy, crackling in our mouths: colorful letters; laughter leaking out through voice notes; hearts adorning our text chats; an abundance of cake. But the days that followed are laid out like burnt matchsticks; once the first one was lit, the flames consumed the rest. The war spared nothing on the calendar; I have had no other birthdays since."
"There is a dream I have held. A wave breaks on the shores of Accre before bending towards Jaffa, and I am suddenly on a small motorboat. We are chanting first, then laughing. Sweet sounds drown out the roar of the engine. My grandmother used to speak of this place-the Bride of the Sea-a wide, blue, expanse that did not always look out toward barbed enclosures."
War began the week of a twenty-sixth birthday, replacing celebration with constant bombardment and erasing subsequent birthdays. Lightness and childhood remnants gave way to days described as burnt matchsticks, with one event igniting sustained destruction. Efforts concentrate on moving forward and imagining a future without warplanes or the Strip. A persistent dream envisions crossing from Accre to Jaffa by motorboat, chanting and laughing while sweet sounds drown out engines. Sensory memories include vendors selling Kaa'ak and a grandmother's tales of the Bride of the Sea before barbed enclosures. Trauma coexists with longing for reunification, study, and steadfast hope.
Read at The Nation
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