Palestine

Four seasons passed us by.

Yet, it’s still winter in that little corner of the world.

Winter in the hearts of those who wait.

Winter in the eyes of mothers, frozen in the stillness of their grief.

Everyone tries to remember the warmth of the sun, but it feels distant now, lost on their pale, weary skin.

Maybe it’s not winter at all.

Maybe it’s the tears and terror that have lingered for far too long, frozen, heavy, in the air they breathe.

And the children... their small faces, too young to understand what they’ve lost, too old to forget.

They wait in the cold, their laughter silenced by fear, their innocence stolen by the weight of a world that doesn’t see them.

No warmth, no hope... just the stillness of their hunger, and the echo of a life that should have been.

For the first time, the smell of blood is stronger than the sea in Gaza.

Stronger than Beit Hanoun’s flowers, stronger than Khan Younis's Orange, stronger than the cardamom coffee in a wedding night party in Rafah, stronger than the za'atar in my mom's kitchen.

No more house and no more cards.

No more ingredients.

No more health in my mom's body.

Nothing to flex.

Only broken bodies remain, crushed under the weight of racist starvation.

My little nephews and nieces, starving not just of food, but of the innocence they should be allowed to keep.

Maybe it’s not winter at all.

Maybe it’s the tears and terror that have lingered for far too long, frozen, heavy, in the air they breathe.

And the children... their small faces, too young to understand what they’ve lost, too old to forget.

They wait in the cold, their laughter silenced by fear, their innocence stolen by the weight of a world that doesn’t see them.

No warmth, no hope... just the stillness of their hunger, and the echo of a life that should have been.

For the first time, the smell of blood is stronger than the sea in Gaza.