by Joy from Ghazza
I don’t know…
Or perhaps, I do this time.
Today, a desire unlike any before compels me to rebuild my fractured self. I’m not sure if that’s the word for all the past chapters, those stations that still linger on me like bruises.
Today, for the first time, I see your colors, O world. I discover there are hues beyond the muted shades my eyes get lost in daily. I lift the veil from my soul, setting it free, to fly as God intended it to be.
I turn my hands over, tracing the lines of my face and body, and feeling every inch of my surroundings. I walk, liberated, taking in what my focus had long forgotten, then rush among my own things, touching them as if they were my firstborn, just emerging to whisper to this world.
I look closely at everything, a heart full of gratitude for the endless chances God floods me with, day after day, without tallying them or asking for their return. This benevolent God entrusts them to me, for He knows that no one but Him could ever deserve this depth of my thanks. It was my sea.
Forgive me for the possessive tone, for calling it mine.
But since the first day of the genocide—
that first day whose goal was my exile
and the theft of all I own—
I have begun to name all things
and tie them to my ownership.
Now, no sound rises above the voice of my waves,
and no bombs can stop the ebb and flow
between the vibrations of my waters.
I spent the evening on the sands of my sea,
looking closely around
where a few violet roses, rebellious,
had grown near the wooden bench opposite the water.
Oh, what a breathtaking sight.
My friend noticed my eyes fixated on those beautiful flowers.
He knows how much I love flowers,
but he doesn’t know that Palestinian flowers
hold a special love within me.
It’s as if the Palestinian identity
bestows a unique beauty and fragrance
on everyone and everything that earns the honor
of being called by it.
I remember once, during a job interview,
the man who looked at me
as if he were seeing a work of art for the first time.
He barely remembered my name,
but I vividly remember his gaze,
and his whispered “Wow,” as he saw me.
He didn’t know that my intelligence was rated higher
than what my face or way of speaking might suggest.
When he asked my name, I answered, “Joy,”
and his smiling lips let out another resounding “Wow.”
I didn’t know if my name was that amazing.
But when he asked my nationality,
and I answered, “Palestinian,”
this was the greatest wonder.
My God, it was as if he had just smelled a rare fragrance
or found a pearl between the jaws of an oyster.
I don’t know why he overreacted,
even though Palestinians are everywhere,
and it’s easy to find one with a sweet tongue, a kind face, a good character.
It’s something both sweet and bitter to be a Palestinian—
to pass through genocide, death, grinding, and burning,
only to emerge as a revered icon.
One that some see as a ruby,
and others see as coal.
My session on my sea came to an end.
I returned to my shelter, just a few meters from my shore.
I wished I could say, “I’m returning home,”
but a Palestinian cannot own a home in their homeland
as long as that homeland is wounded in the hands of its oppressors.
The homeland must first free its pierced body
from the jaws of the beasts
before it can provide a home,
oxygen, and water for its young children.
Despite all these wounds,
I looked at my sky and my sea,
breathed in my air,
thanked my Lord, and smiled.
I continued on my way
as the autumn leaves began to fall.
Support Joy’s survival and evacuation from Gaza at tinyurl.com/evacuate-joy.
https://linktr.ee/joyfromghazza
About the Author
My name is Farah, and my nickname is “Joy.” I’m a 22-year-old writer from Gaza, currently studying English Literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, which has sadly been bombed. I’ve lived most of my life through war, enduring five conflicts that have stolen my right to live in safety, peace, and love.
I write stories, reflections, and poems. Since I was young, I’ve been passionate about poetry and literature, and I also enjoy simple crochet, which helps me distract myself from the tragedies I experience. Recently, I started my biggest project yet: writing a book documenting everything I’ve lived through during the ongoing genocide, which has now lasted over a year and a half.
I currently live with my mother and four siblings in a shelter, seeking refuge from the constant threat of death due to the violent airstrikes shaking the ground around me. I am my mother’s eldest daughter, her close friend, and her supporter (just as she supports me); together, we decided to launch our chuffed campaign to raise funds for our basic needs during this brutal war that’s ravaging our weary bodies. My father hasn’t been with us since we were young; we’ve always been under our mother’s care. I’ve lost my beautiful, warm home. I’ve been displaced to over 17 different shelters and locations, each one worse than the last due to the lack of any safe place to go. We face countless struggles, most notably the starvation we endure as part of the siege and strangulation, designed to create a complete cycle of Nazi-like genocide against us.
With all the love and longing in my heart, I aspire to pursue a Master’s degree in Translation and Intercultural Communication. It is my ambition, my goal, and my dream—one I am determined to fulfill, with unwavering passion and hope.
Not even the harshest of circumstances could stop me from walking steadily toward my dream. Neither the absence of safety, nor the brutality of bombardment, nor the heaviness of war has ever planted despair in my heart.
Thank you for your continuous generosity in supporting me to deliver my message to the world.
With deepest respect and hope,
Support Joy’s survival and evacuation from Gaza at tinyurl.com/evacuate-joy.
