Ahmed's Poems!

وقد حدث ما كنا نخشاه..

سبت دموي آخر كالذي كنا ندعو أن ننساه.. مئات الأصوات..

طيارات.. قذائف .. صواريخ.. اهتزاز الأرض والبيوت من تحت أقدامنا..

لوهلة ظننت أني لا زلت في الخرطوم ولكن الأصوات تتعالى..

الأرض تهتز.. 

وهذا صوت لم نعتده.. 

السماء تزدهر بالألوان.. الأحمر والأصفر والبرتقالي.. 

وقد بدأ يطلع الصبح.. 

بديلاً عن قطرات الندى نزلت علينا نثرات من الرماد.. 

الجو معبق برائحة البارود.. 

***

أسمع أصوات الأطفال وهم يستيقظون يسألون ما الذي يحدث.. 

أخواتي يحاولون تهدأتهم.. 

البيت كله مستيقظ... 

لم تمض دقائق على صلاة الصبح وفي مواعيد صلاة الضحى.. 

أضحت الحدود خرابا.. 

مئات الجنود تخترق الحدود مع الكيان الصهيوني.. 

مئات الأخبار في دقائق.. 

التضحيات التي قدمت ولا زالت تُقَدم.. 

أبناء أخواتي وهم يحاولون فهم الموقف.. يطالبون بالوقوف على الشبابيك وأنا لا حيلة لي بالشرح.. 

بعد محاولات عدة أن القصف هو إنسان يشبه الأبطال الخارقين ولكنه شرير.. 

يمكنه أن يرى الأطفال من على بعد!! 

ولديه أطراف حادة كالسيوف يمكن أن تقطع حتى كل الشباك الحديدية التي تغطي النوافذ.. 

***

وعلى جهة أخرى أزواج أخواتي وهم يتصلون باستمرار للاطمئنان.. 

وكيف سيعودون إلى المنزل آمنين!!

رحلة البحث بين مكاتب السيارات لنجد سائق يقبل أن يذهب بهم إلى مدينتهم *خانيوس* ولكن بلا فائدة!! 

وحدث بعد أن طلع الصباح عند الساعة الثامنة َوالنصف أن أتي زوج أختي ليأخذهم.. وقد كان.. 

الحمدلله وصلوا آمنين.. 

***

الآن رحلة البحث عن المواد التموينية.. 

البلد تكتظ بالناس كيوم الحشر.. 

الكل يهرول ليأخذ ما يكفيه َويهرب من تحت السماء.. 

العيون مصوبة كل دقائق مع أصوات الصواريخ إلى السماء هلعين أن تكون موجهة ناحيتهم..

المحلات مليئة.. السوبرماركت يكاد أن يلفظ موظفيه ليسع زبائنه المحملين بأكياس الأرز و المعكرونة.. ما قد وجدوه من لحوم معلبة وأجبان وآخر ما تبقى من بيض.. 

وعدنا محملين بالقوت عسى ولعل أن تكون الفترة قصيرة حيث أننا عائدون من حرب قد تركنا ورائنا فيها كل شيء ولا حيلة لنا بما تحمله هذه الحرب.. غير مدركين لجهلنا أن الوضع أصعب بعشرات المرات مما شهدناه.. 

****

الأيام تجري ولا زال الوضع كما هو.. 

القصف مستمر..

مئات الضحايا.. 

الكثير من الجرحى والشهداء.. 

بيوت تسقط فوق رؤوس ساكنيها في عتمة الليل بلا إنذار.. 

خالتي التي خرجت من تحت أنقاض بيتها هي وأبنائها بعد أن هُدم منزلهم فوق رؤوسهم.. 

التوتر.. القلق.. 

أخواتي اللاتي قُطعت عنهم الكهرباء منذ اليوم الأول.. كيف كان يبحثون عن أكياس الدقيق والخبز ليواجهوا هذه الأيام.. 

أبناء أخواتي الذين لا أستطيع رؤيتهم وأنا أبعد عنهم مسافة ثلث ساعة بالسيارة.. 

***

في يوم الثلاثاء بالأمس رُجت الأرض من تحت أقدامنا..

الناس تركض في الشوارع.. أصوات العويل ونوبات الهلع.. 

الناس تطالب بالإخلاء فقد وصل إلى مسامعهم أن الحي سيتم قصفه.. 

كيف مضت هذه الدقائق علينا ونحن نلبس ما طالته أيدينا.. نلمم في الاوراق المهمه تاركين خلفنا بيتنا وكل عزيز كانت لنا المقدره على جلبه من الخرطوم.. 

ثلث ساعه من القلق ونحن على أعتاب البيت مستعدين للذهاب للمجهول.. 

والحمدلله فقد أدركنا إنه إنذار كاذب.. 

كيف تنفسنا الصعداء ولكن لم ننم ليلتها.. 

فخط الكهرباء غير مستقر.. 

والآن وأنا أكتب.. مضى على قطع الكهرباء 9 ساعات ولم تأتي بعد حيث قد مُنع دخول الوقود لمحطات الكهرباء ومنعت المساعدات.. وتم قصف معبر رفح بحيث توقف عن العمل.. 

الآن أنا في قلب غزة.. في حصار غزة الذي كنت أسمع عنه ولا أعي الموقف تماماً.. والآن أنا ابن غزة.. أنا المغضوب علي لأني فلسطيني.. 

أنا المضطهد لأني حدث أن ولدت في هذه المدينة.. 

اللهم الثبات.. اللهم الرحمة.. 

أدعوا لنا فنحن مقبلون على مجهول لم نعشه.. 

وعسى أن يطلع علينا صُبحٌ آخر لنروي ما حدث بعيون ملآى بدموع النصر.. 

اللهم نصرك..اللهم نصرك... اللهم نصرك.. 

21:51-11.10.2023 

Ahmed Sarsour

I wrote this poem on day 196 of the war. I remember there were new seasons of famous TV shows dropping from Hollywood, new songs being released, and people losing their minds over them. The Met Gala season was coming up too, and everyone was planning and talking about it.

Meanwhile, as people screamed on social media, at concerts, and at different events for their favorite artists and actors to notice them and cheer back, we were screaming into screens trying to spread the word about the atrocities committed against us in hope of stopping the war or getting the help we needed to be evacuated from the war zone.

I was angry. No one seemed able to see us or feel anything for us. I felt completely alone. The world had turned its back on us.

It was simply us facing the Zionist occupation, which meant an even simpler equation: either us or them.

Title: Day 196! 

**

It's day 196

I'm shutting down.

I don't feel the urge to eat anymore!

Nor to breathe!

I go to sleep wishing for the next strike to be mine.

The suspense they say! 

Well, I can't take it anymore!

My heart is tired.

And I'm exhausting of making scenarios that would never come true!

They are watching us from above.

As you are watching from behind your screen.

They lie to you and you believe them, yet we are telling the truth on a daily basis and you deny it!

How awful is this?

I don't bother finding an answer anymore.

Because the answer lies within the sounds that disturb our sleep every night! 

It's ok, go back to your favorite TV show.

Listen to the newest album of your favorite artist!

We are still here.

Still standing.

And it's either us or them...

**

17:54-19.04.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem tells the story of my journey escaping my home in Sudan, and of us, as a family, returning to our hometown in Deir Al Balah in the Gaza Strip. It tells how we escaped Sudan’s war only to be faced with another awful one.

It depicts my fear for my people, how I try to help even though my hands are tied.

I felt helpless at times. I wanted to leave, the pain was too much. But I couldn’t, we couldn’t.

There was an awful amount of money we were asked to pay to get an exit permit from the Rafah border, once reaching 20,000 dollars.

We didn’t have that kind of money, and the price my people paid was unimaginable.

As if the price they paid with their blood and souls wasn’t enough to allow anyone who wished to leave.

At that time, the readings and charts were at 35,000 souls lost when I wrote this poem, after more than half a year of bombardment, targeting, and killing. The numbers are much higher now as you read this.

It speaks of how we tried to accept our fate, even though it grew harder with each day we spent here in Gaza.

But this land is ours, it always will be. And there will always be life bursting from the rubble.

After my sister Rania, my other sister, and our in-laws evacuated their homes under the shelling and bombardment with my nephews and niece, they came to stay with us. At the time they received the news that their houses in Khan Yunis had been destroyed, Rania gave birth to my beautiful niece Rose. She was born during the war on the 23rd of February 2024, named after the daughter of my sister’s best friend Razan, who was martyred with her daughter Rose and the rest of her family and in-laws in an Israeli airstrike in the first ten days of the genocide. Only one survived, the other daughter of Rania’s friend, Rose’s sister.

My mother’s pleas and regrets, the daily fights, and my anxiety attacks while dealing with the conditions we found ourselves forced into.

My people’s pleas on screens, begging the world to make these nightmares stop, while watching their loved ones depart to the heavens.

Sending a universal ask for humanity to take a stand and to not leave us behind.

Title: Don't leave us behind?! 

***

I took an eraser and erased myself today.

I liked the idea of me vanishing into thin air, away from all of the suffering we have endured!

As I'm being carried away by the wind along with the leaves of olive trees, I couldn't help but think of my people!

As I traveled from the river to the sea, watching all over the children who cry for their parts to fit back!

The backpacks are filled with red roses drawing a path for me to follow!

The ashes and smoke who traveled side by side with me to warn the people to run away.

How the little pieces of metal flew right into me reaching them before I do!

I shook my mind out of it frightened of the thought of them reaching the home I left behind.

I found myself rushing with the southern wind to get away as fast as I could!

I felt helpless, I wanted to leave all of this fear and injustice behind me.

On the edge of city borders I got stopped by a wall made out of shouts and screams. The screaming voices echoing inside of my soul advising me to go back!

I hear them saying: "This destination is out of your reach, You don't have enough on you to pass."

Like the 35 thousand souls who are standing by my side aren't enough!

They asked for the 10 thousand coins I gave along the way to the people who needed them more than I!

It's funny that a year ago I was on the other side of that wall, fleeing a similar fate!

As the northern wind was blowing, I was advised to retreat!

Catching my ride before I get stuck for eternity in this limbo between hell and paradise!

The northern wind was ready to flee, she shook my hand asking me to join her! I put my hands into hers flying and soaring above all of the land that once was ours!

As I got carried away by her I stumbled upon the rubble of my sister's house, I looked all over their things which were buried deep down in the ground.

I found a rose that has grown from the rubble, reddish, tall with her face facing the sun wishing for me a happy return.

As I waved goodbye seeking refuge in the middle area of what I have always known as home.

In between palm trees and olive trees, passed by their leaves with the breeze,

I found my way into one of the windows I climbed ages ago.

I remember how my mother was racing every time to catch me before I fall.

Now, I see her face filled with tears, her breath is racing, sitting next to the empty bed, holding the pillow of my dreams.

Her prayers of mercy upon my soul, wondering if I'm ever finding my way back!

I can hear her blaming herself for letting me go!

How do I undo this?! she asks. 

How can I rewrite this story so I can have all of my children around me?!

What paths led us to escape one awful destiny to fall into a darker one?!

How can I fix this?!

As she inhales loss in between cries, I got sucked by the air leading me to her lungs into the blood to her heart.

As my feet step into it, I can feel the warmth of her breath. 

The familiar smell of home I always wondered where it came from!!

I can feel her batting on her chest as if she can feel me close to her.

 As I embrace the rhythm of her heartbeat, I fight to open my eyes. Hearing the sound of my beating heart alarming me of my anxiety attack.

 As that story came to an end, I woke up to the sounds of demons creating new nightmares for us to endure. 

The sky was raining hell-fire on those who were seeking refuge in what is a so-called safe zone!

The smell of burning flesh, the screams of tortured souls, rising with the smoke to the sky banging on the heaven doors to take them before they suffocate from the injustice of this world!

Among the shouts, the cries and the rubbles, there was I and those who were left on the ground wishing for these nightmares to end!

So I'm asking you, are you going to take a stand?

Because, if you were thinking of erasing yourself today, would you take us with you? Please,

you can't leave us behind!

***

22:35-27.05.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem is in memory of Ahmed Alnajar, the 18-month-old baby boy martyr who was killed in an Israeli airstrike that left his tiny body without a head in Mawasi, Rafah. On camera, his father was screaming, holding only his son’s body without a head, crying into the void and begging people to look. Most channels masked the news and hid the imagery, yet when the Israeli prime minister claimed that we beheaded 40 Israeli babies, those same channels spread it everywhere without even confirming if it was true.

It left a bitter feeling in my throat because our children's lives seem to have no value to the world, especially when compared to the fabricated lies pushed by the Zionist state.

Then came the paradox of the Met Gala season and Halle Bailey quoting Marie Antoinette with “let them eat cake.” When people criticized her, she cried on screen saying she didn’t know what to do and had no power, even though she has 8 million followers on TikTok. As if you need education or long explanations to simply act like a human being.

When the campaign to block celebrities started, many rushed to post a video or two just to save themselves. Among them was Lizzo. Her speech was full of entitlement, and many pointed out that if she truly cared, she could have donated the entire goal for the Gazan family she promoted instead of giving less than 10 percent of it.

The irony is that people cheered for her and other celebrities for doing the bare minimum. They talked about helping, but not about the atrocities, not about who is responsible, and not about calling it what it is: a genocide. They only spoke about helping evacuate families from the war zone, and that was enough. People let it slip, and the celebrities were forgiven.

It feels like everyone preferred to lie low and stay silent, removing themselves completely from the scene.

Title: No Head! 

***

If you did see it, you can't have it unseen! 

Palestinian children's lives don't matter.

The baby had a diaper on but no head! Let that sink in as you watch from behind your screen!

How many times did you watch us getting burned? Watch us scream! Have you heard our shouts? Have you cared enough to scream?

To scream No! 

to all of those who suppress us, To those who kept us in between! Stuck on city borders, waiting, using hashtags, getting on your daily stream!

They tormented us, tortured us,

and as they stated, unalived 35 thousand of us, that fascist regime!

The baby was pulled out of a sea of burning tents, a diaper on, No head, his dad screams!

Did you see the names on your screen? The numbers, The cries, Did it reach your media stream?

Their motto was not again, but it's a holocaust like nothing we have ever seen! They burnt everything in their way, even our ability to dream!

So, have you seen the desperate attempts at getting your attention? The GoFundMe campaigns? The begging, how they crushed our self-esteem?!

Maybe it caught your attention when Lizzo finally made a statement with her celebrity supreme.

No?!

Then definitely when Haley Bailey cried, your precious queen! I saw the comments, That was extreme!

But, have you looked us up after that? Have you donated? Given us some of that green?

Have you lifted a finger and reposted?

Or maybe you liked keeping your hands clean?

Did you possibly consider reading our stories, trying to comprehend the message in between?

No,

I know exactly what you did!

You preferred taking yourself out of the scene!"

**

01:35-02.06.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem was written to call out the bias the world has willingly absorbed,

a bias that has fed into the Israeli propaganda and protected its story from questioning.

They claim to be the chosen people of God.

And in their religious tradition, organ donation was long debated and often discouraged.

Yet Israel maintains one of the world’s most advanced tissue and skin banks.

The world never asks where this comes from.

It never asks why Palestinian bodies have been returned missing internal organs,

why eyeballs were reported absent,

why skin appeared altered or damaged, as if it had been removed.

Whenever we try to tell the truth of what is happening to us,

we are met with Holocaust stories,

as if we are the ones who committed it,

as if that history justifies what is being done to us now.

So stay silent.

Keep supporting them with your tax money.

Keep believing the story that is easier to accept.

But remember that silence is not neutral.

It carries responsibility.

Title: Staying silent?! 

**

Yes, you stayed silent too!

I heard the echo of it in the bombs they dropped on a child of two!

Indeed, you said you didn't want to be a part of this,

but they heard your silence and tore apart homes too!

You can walk and see limbs and bodies all over the streets.

Please look away as they continue to ethnically cleanse these scenes.

They take some to their skin bank others to bury in dust, rubble, and sand!

You know by heart that Gaza is free,

but you chose to believe what they've recited over the years.

How unjustly they've been treated,

the Holocaust they survived.

They have every right to defend themselves from apartheid!

But as they do, they reflect it on us. How can you be so blind?

Are you going to stay silent too?

As they kill more people far away from you?

You said you will fight for all human rights,

but it seems you do not care about my people's rights.

So if you may, just turn your eyes away,

I know you have paid for this genocide to be on play.

We don't need your help, 

We don't need your slogans.

We will fight ourselves, spread the horrors unspoken.

So keep on staying silent, keep on paying them taxes,

We won't surrender until we are done,

So run, run, run.

They are coming for your contradictions and your gun.

You will witness it with your eyes, they will pay the price!

Once they are done, you will all be left with none!

***

02:06-16.06.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem is inspired by the many questions I carried while growing up, questions I would never have had to ask if I were not a Palestinian forced to leave his hometown in search of a better life outside the prison that was manufactured for us.

This feeling has never left me, the feeling of not belonging. Even now, being in Gaza, I feel like a stranger, to the land and sometimes to the people. I am expected to adapt to a way of living inherited through generations, a continuity that was broken with us, because we did not grow up here. Yet this fracture is rarely understood. Even my mother did not fully understand it, and slowly, I became a stranger in my own home.

So be grateful for what you have, for never having to gamble your life on immigration in search of dignity, safety, or a future.

As for me, I will keep trying to cope, and maybe, one day, I will learn how to be happy.

Title: Why am I always sad?

***

They say happiness is a choice, so is sadness?

But how can you judge a book by its cover if you've never read it?!

I walk down memory lane, deep in my brain. 

I see the little child deprived of what you all had!

Always in vain. 

So why don't you try on my shoes?

Have a glimpse of what I've been living through! 

See what you might obtain?

Do you see me crying myself to sleep when I was nine?

How I asked my mother to change schools because no one loved me there?

Mom, I don't have any friends to call mine! 

Did you see that picture hanging on the last corridor of my mind?

The picture I drew of the world I wanted to leave behind! 

It's all black, red, and white

The blackness of people's hearts I've always faced! 

The red of the spilled blood of every fight I got into because I didn't fit!

The white of bathroom walls that saw me cry even at 29!

20 years apart, yet still demeaning. 

Same question: Why don't I fit?

Now at 31, my eyes are filled with tears

Sleeping alone on a bed made out of my darkest fears.

How come, at 31, I have never experienced love? 

Am I unworthy of it?

Should I add it to the pile of broken dreams? 

My mom broke my heart today for the second time in my lifetime!

She blamed me for promises I made as a kid and couldn't keep! 

She accused me of making trouble out of nowhere like a wolf disguised as a sheep! 

She pointed fingers at my anxiety, made it bigger and clearer!

Awakening it from its sleep! 

The castles I built from words of kindness inside of my brain crumbled facing the storm! 

Darkness invaded the cages of my insecurities, releasing them to wreak havoc on my self-esteem. 

Rushed thoughts of ending it all began to form under the spotlight! 

It was their turn to shine! 

They spread their darkness into my soul, shook the whole world beneath my feet

Made me question my existence 

Drowned my ship by their sorrowful fleet! 

So, while I was in that seat, facing their judgment, that made my heart irregularly beat! 

I kept asking myself

Why don't I fit?

Why am I always sad?! 

Why is it always bitter rather than sweet?! 

***

22:45-03.08.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

In memory of Khalid Nabhan and his granddaughter Reem, who both were killed by Israeli attacks on Nuseirat camp almost a year apart.

Reem Nabhan, the 3-year-old girl, was martyred on November 22, 2023. She was killed alongside her 5-year-old brother, Tarek, during an Israeli airstrike that struck their family home in the Nuseirat refugee camp while they were sleeping. There was a viral video showing her grandfather, Khaled Nabhan (also known as Abu Diaa), cradling her lifeless body and kissing her eyes. On that day, he was seen holding her body, saying "Rooh Alrooh," meaning "soul of the soul." This was filmed in the aftermath of this attack.

A year after the killing of his granddaughter Reem, on the 16th of December, 2024, he was reunited with her in Jannah, approximately 13 months after Reem's death. He was killed by Israeli tank shelling in the Nuseirat camp while reportedly rushing to help others who had been injured in an initial strike.

Grandpa Khalid and Reem shared the same birthday, December 23. Specifically, Khaled Nabhan was born on December 23, 1969. Reem Nabhan was born exactly 50 years later on December 23, 2019. Before he was martyred in December 2024, Grandpa Khalid frequently spoke about their shared birthday as a symbol of their deep bond, stating that he would never be able to celebrate the day again without her.

And as they shared the same birthday, now they share the same fate. Hopefully, they will be celebrating their birthday together in heaven. May Allah bless their souls and grant them Jannah. Ameen.

Title: Soul of the soul! 

**

In a moment of time, you were safe and sound. 

In a blink of an eye, he said goodbye. 

Six feet in the ground, away from his arms. He tries to be strong, but he cries. 

You are in his heart, In the corner of his eyes. 

Wherever he goes, he sees your smile, Up there in the skies. 

Grandpa Khalid, kept mentioning your name,

In his prayers, in his dreams, with everyone he meets. 

You would hear him say, from miles away:

"Reem, the soul of my soul, 

A piece of my heart they stole. "

They knew she was my soul, 

Yet they took her away. 

Our souls are bound forever, 

That's why I can't stay. 

She won't be forgotten, 

her story will thrive. 

No one can steal the memories, 

the way she made me feel alive

As bright, as her memory's light,

A beacon in my heart,

With the tears I hide,

The prayers that guide me to her side. 

Reem has been waiting at heaven's door, 

His prayers and kind words were reaching her evermore. 

She told the angels, "He'll arrive soon, 

He misses me so much, as big as the moon!". 

And then grandpa Khalid died. 

Killed by an air strike, and there he arrived. 

Their souls reunited, their voices together intertwined,

And they sang:

"Put your little hands in mine, 

Come join together at the end of the line, 

 in a heavenly embrace, 

You can see his face. 

He finally smiles, 

For the God he prays,

Has answered his prayers."

For Reem was in his dreams,

And now his body happily screams:

"Happy birthday for you and me, 

The soul of my soul, 

The light they never stole, 

You were with me all along, 

With you I'm whole."

**

12:00-16.12.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem is a testimony, a memorial, and an accusation.

It is inspired by the repeated atrocities and assaults committed against my people, by the deliberate use of our living conditions as a weapon. They weaponized the cold. They stopped the aid, then mocked us by distributing brochures on how to survive freezing weather.

While the world was busy celebrating the holidays, we were here dying from the cold. Some froze to death.

Among them were Dr. Ahmed Al-Zaharna, newborn babies trapped in NICU units without heat, and Seela, a two-week-old girl who died searching for warmth, biting her lips through the freezing night.

And even that was not enough.

They did not allow our journalists to report on this. They wanted the world to remain in darkness. So on the 26th of December, the last Friday of 2024, in front of Al-Awda Hospital in Tel Al-Zaatar, north of Nuseirat, a clearly marked press van belonging to Al-Quds Today TV was torched.

The vehicle was labeled “PRESS” and “TV” in large, illuminated letters on all sides, visible and unmistakable, recognizable even from the air. Inside were five journalists, all civilians, all on duty.

Ayman Al-Jadi, a correspondent for Al-Quds Today, was waiting for the birth of his son, Omar, in the same hospital. He was killed before seeing him. As Ayman took his last breath, his son took his first. Omar was delivered by C-section minutes after his father’s death.

Also inside the van were Faisal Abu Al-Qumsan, the broadcast director; Fadi Hassouna, a cameraman; Ibrahim Al-Sheikh Ali, a broadcast technician; and Mohammed Al-Lad’a, the driver.

The Israeli army claimed the vehicle was transporting terrorists. Yet international organizations, including the Committee to Protect Journalists and Reporters Without Borders, confirmed that all five were civilian journalists.

This poem is also inspired by the doctors who were killed while on duty, and by those taken from hospitals while performing their work, later labeled terrorists for doing nothing more than treating their own people. And the world watched in silence.

This poem is fueled by fear as well. Fear for my baby niece, Rose, not yet a year old. Her parents, my sister and her husband, were forced to buy cooking gas at unbearable prices just to create enough heat so their child would not freeze to death, like others who were not fortunate. And beyond her, a universal fear for all the babies of my people.

This poem comes from that place.

---

Title: A second winter!

***

It's freezing, all of it!

Freezing.

The aid is frozen, stalled by frozen borders.

Your voices spit cold into our cores.

We are freezing, yet the only note we had from you was, "It's holiday season. Merry Christmas!"

We burned every tree we could find to get warmth, to heat the water, to feed the hungry,

And to stop these stirring winds from coming at us, 

Like they did a year ago.

A year, and you are still watching.

A second winter.

We told you, winter is coming,

Yet you only cared about the thrones you sit on.

The Game of Thrones winter had more publicity than ours, while it wasn’t even real!

Where is your humanity? Is humanity even real?

The Khaleesi you once worshiped and cheered for cared about the innocent.

You rooted for her as she burned her enemies,

Yet you stood by, watching us burn at the hands of our oppressors.

You chose to shake hands, seal deals, and promote their agenda, 

As if they were the oppressed, not the aggressors.

"Slay her dragons!" they shouted, yet no one could; except the Dark Lord.

He brought winter upon all the land,

And still had the dignity to show his true colors, all dark and cold!

He didn’t make allies.

He didn’t shake hands.

He came like a bad dream and took everything in his path.

So why are you letting them take some and leave others?

Why are you letting them make our hearts literally stop and our voices stutter! 

From fear, from anger, from the cold?

"It's freezing," said Ahmed Alzharna.

"It's freezing," whispered the NICU babies.

And as Seela bit her little lips, seeking warmth,

God sent His guardian angels and took her and them to His side,

Because Allah knew—it's freezing.

They left us without making a sound,

Not even a heartbeat.

We stood speechless, in shock.

And you?

You denied it.

You sent us brochures on how to survive the cold,

Like it would cure us and bring back the departed souls.

"Drink your hot beverages,

Strengthen the walls of your tent with blankets and cardboards,

Lie next to each other,

Keep your bodies warm,

Follow these tips, and you'll survive the storm."

But how could they?

How could we?

On an empty stomach?

Like the empty promises of a deal you kept promoting for weeks?

Months?

It's day 448.

We are getting thinner.

Our bodies can't take it anymore,

They are getting sicker. 

Our blood can’t be any thicker! 

The song of fire and ice began to play,

With fire and ice, a hospital fell as prey,

With screams met by laughs,

Of two opposing sides.

Five shadows screaming inside a van marked Press.

"It's freezing, fire, we are journalists" 

screamed the souls that burned to ashes,

While the camera never flashes,

on the side that's laughing,

the one who steers the robot gears.

The echo of their voices. 

The price of their choices. 

Will forever hunt you, 

Reaching out to you,

Reaching your door. 

So please do not ignore! 

Their stories should be honored, not ignored. 

It has been freezing for more than seven decades—

The cold of your judgments,

The frigid disease,

The ice-cold of your restrictions,

The frost of your siege.

This is all old news to us.

It’s been freezing for 76 years,

And maybe more years.

But our day will come!

You will all see.

From the fueling fire within these frozen souls, the kids will learn,

The atrocities committed,

the souls they burn.

The kids will rise and shake their throne,

They will avenge us,

they will destroy the dome.

Their empire will fall,

so send out the call—

They will be burnt— all!

With persistence leading,

a power unyielding,

The kids will win,

They will be men,

And bring victory home!

***

01:14-28.12.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

"This poem is inspired by the incredible support I received from people across social media. Their warm words, kind prayers, and unwavering presence in my corner have been a source of immense strength. I wrote this with a deep-seated hope for a peaceful future, an end to this senseless war, and the enduring belief that there is always light at the end of the tunnel." 

Title: A promise! 

**

This must end. 

You promised you'll never bend. 

Always be my friend. 

Together till the end. 

So let's not waste time

Let's burn their den of crime

Oh, world, awake, lend a helping hand,

To heal this wound, across the land.

Hear my pleas, my lone demand:

Shade your peace above my land!

**

00:41-16.12.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem was inspired by a lifelong aversion to celebration. I always felt something was missing. However, upon returning to Gaza and being surrounded by my family, I finally understood the beauty of celebrating with loved ones. It was filled with love, joy, and happy memories. But these precious memories were tragically disrupted by war, the very reason we were forced to leave our hometown within the Gaza Strip 2 decades ago. We sought a life of dignity, a decent existence beyond the confines of occupation, restrictions, and this concentration camp.

Witnessing others celebrating New Year's and other holidays while we continue to endure this ongoing holocaust filled me with anger. Yet, I now understand the source of their joy: they are safe with their families and loved ones. But can't understand how they can be celebrating with this ongoing Genocide. We, too, deserve to celebrate. I sincerely hope they never experience the kind of celebration we are forced to endure here. 

Title: New year! 

***

I don't understand celebrations, 

I never did! 

Maybe because I've been away from family and relatives my whole life.

Although I kind of get it now. 

After living here for a few months, as time allowed. 

I think I finally understand 

But hey, it's not a few months anymore,my bad! 

Almost 2 years, it's weird how fast time has passed! 

I'm sorry, so sorry— because I realized, I don't understand. 

Not really. Not anymore!

Again in front of the corridor.

The one I tried so hard to ignore, but it's in my mind, and it keeps screaming I don't understand,

I don't understand celebrations.

I don't understand christmas gifts or Halloween decorations. 

I don't understand New year's wishes.

I do not understand Thanksgiving or how you throw the food you don't eat from your dishes! 

I don't understand how you can create holidays just to justify your hunger for killing! 

Your lust to enslave, to starve the living!

So, do you know the date, darling?

Of course you do. It's the new year, thrilling. 

But it's been the same 76 years for us!

On the same stolen land, under the same occupation. 

We practiced thrift so we can steal some moments to live, to love, to mime celebration. 

Yet, I never knew how could you celebrate without us?

Against us?

And overlook our right to have the same right as you!

Which is simply to celebrate?

I didn't understand celebrations until I reunited with my family here in Gaza,

Until my beautiful nephews and nieces kissed me, "Hellos" and "Goodbyes" .

I never understood celebrations until I held my baby niece, Rose, in my arms.

And I hated celebrations when you took away my right to see her first steps

Her first "Dada" and "Mama" ,her first let's bath and kiss.

I hated celebrations when you tore my family apart, 

When you denied me the right to celebrate Eids with them, creating memories close to my heart. 

I don't understand celebrations, 

I never did. I don't know why? 

But I believe I have my answer now to the question: why? 

I understand now, your silence and complicity is why!

So, happy new year from Gaza to you!

Happy new year from me to your loved ones. 

Happy new year for giving up on us. 

And a miserable new year for me and my people, full of terror, cold and hunger. 

Because that's more than enough of a reason for death to linger.

So, no new year to my people, may they rest in peace. 

Happy new year from them & us to you,

may you never celebrate the way we do. 

***

00:09-04.01.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem is inspired by the devastating images emerging from Jabalia's camp and the unsettling parallels to events that have unfolded in Los Angeles, California.

I couldn't overlook the fact that some of the celebrities, who openly support the genocidal state of Israel, attended the 2024 Met Gala while the war raged on. These individuals, who publicly lamented the loss of their homes and possessions, appear completely detached from the suffering of Palestinians who have lost not only material possessions but also cherished family members and loved ones.

I hope this poem serves as a wake-up call to those who stand in solidarity with the ongoing aggression against us, urging them to recognize the true enemy of all humanity.

Title: Crocodile Tears! 

**

Met Gala fame, looked like a hunger game,

Met Gala dresses and Met Gala shoes.

How much money had been spent

On these outfits and this muse?

“Let them eat cake,” A celebrity said—

What a shame, a Met Gala shame,

Reviving a hunger game— but who's to blame?

A California dream with LA's modern gleam,

A weather forecast that was never foreseen.

Met Gala's heroes, representatives of Hollywood,

Their houses burned by a similar fire once overlooked by James Woods.

No ceasefire, no compromise,

No forgiveness— those were his lines.

He used them knowing

A death toll is growing.

Then asked you to look away,

And for you orchestrated a play:

“Kill them all,” said filled with rage,

“Make them suffer, trap them in a cage,

Send ‘em all back to the Stone Age.”

LA burning scene, a dreadful echo of Jabalia's camp scene. 

Hollywood’s actors, tears on screen,

But still, it was nothing compared to my people’s scream.

To the world, their tears were truthful—

And ours, deceitful?

What a world we live in,

Where selective empathy is a thing!

California burned, ashes upon ashes,

Memories destroyed as fire clashes.

A big traffic jam,

Cars and precious belongings left behind

Running to survive

No class, no favoritism,

In a perfect entangled fiery prism,

With smoky curls blanketing any vision,

Wind braided the fiery flames

And laid them on houses' frames.

LA screams echoed into our souls

Opened the wounds that keep on stall

As much as some deserve what they have lost

Others can't be blamed, paying the cost

The cost of the evil schemes

Raising funds and Sending lots of money streams

To the monstrous ones, the thieves of our dreams. 

Gazans' humanity saved them—it never failed them. 

No laughs no gloat, 

Never wished death crawling up their throat.

Our humanity remained intact,

As we, Gazans praised the Lord to save them from nature’s attack.

But in 2024, Met Gala celebrities refused to answer the call

They attend knowing

A death toll is far more growing.

Worshiping fake idols,

Praising false gods

they are complicit, Making humanity diverge away from the cause 

Met Gala season has passed, a page filled with diabolical façade,

They cheered for those same forces,

The ones exploiting all natural resources,

Trying so hard changing humanity courses. 

Bringing destruction all over the globe, 

They intend to steal the power of your hope. 

So open your eyes, be woke,

Tell Haily Bailey, Mr. Woods and their folk.

They should consider eating cake,

Since they finally taste a glimpse of our heart’s ache.

***

07:15-10.01.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

After they accepted the deal brought to them by the negotiators, they said the truce would come into effect after three days.

And what awful three days those were!

They bombed nonstop, taking more lives, intensifying their attacks and the destruction.

Imagine surviving the war only to be killed just a few days before the end of these massacres.

We lost so many souls during those few days that preceded the ceasefire in January 2025.

I feel guilty for surviving while others didn’t—how we were fortunate to see the end of those three days, while Ahmed and many others did not.

Ahmed is one of the souls we lost. He was a journalist friend of Khalid Nabhan from Nuseirat camp—Ahmed Abu Alrous was his name.

He became a martyr on the day they announced the acceptance of the deal, January 15th, almost three days before the ceasefire began.

He was so excited and hopeful. After his death, a video surfaced with a goodbye message, saying: “If you are seeing this video, it means I got martyred, so don’t forget me and keep praying for me.”

May Allah bless his soul and all the fallen martyrs we have lost over these past eight decades. May they all rest in peace.

Title: Three days. 

**

Three days felt like three decades.

The decay of bodies under rubble moved a bit faster.

And somehow, the souls we lost seemed to depart, and be forgotten about.

I don’t know how the three days passed, but they passed.

Each five seconds counted a soul within its presence.

You could hear the names within each tick's essence:

Tick.

Ahmed Alnajar.

Tick.

Seela.

Tick.

Aisha.

Tick.

Reem.

Tick.

Khaled Nabhan.

Tick, tick, tick.

And it goes on and on!

For more than 50,000 names,

Within those 15 months, in less than three days,

You recite all of the names.

Was it really worth it? Was that the aim?

It only takes a few seconds to recite a name.

Is that all they've left behind? A name?

But with each name we recite, there’s a story to claim.

A whole life that had been lived—

Big achievements, a lot of failures, and tries.

There were laughs, weeping, and cries,

And infinite possibilities of futures they would have survived.

With each second that ticked, they would have strived

To seek their ambitions,

their dreamed life.

But with that mentioned tick,

their deaths were contrived.

Now it’s a matter of a few ticks to say their name.

So, who should take the blame?

Three days felt like walking three thousand miles. 

Alone in the desert of their lies,

Seeking shelter, water, and warmth,

Away from the freezing cold

That crept on our soul.

As these ticking seconds went by,

The night crept on us as we said goodbye

To the growling sounds of empty stomachs,

To the whistling winds pounding on the walls of our tents,

Claiming the souls of our loved ones and collecting the rents.

Three days felt as long as those fifteen months of war—

The savagery of their killings, the brutal attacks that kept on restore 

The screaming voices that kept hitting our door.

We tried to stay calm, but we couldn't ignore. 

How they claimed more souls,

as if no one had called them out just a day before!

Three days living on the scraps of our last hope.

On the laughter of the young ones, hoping there’d be enough food.

On the cries of bereaved mothers who lost their sons, daughters, and their livelihood.

On waiting—anxious, afraid, and full of guilt, 

for being among the living, not the dead.

On the survivor’s guilt that will carry forever.

On daydreams of sharing a better world as we stand together.

On thoughts of how we were fortunate to see the end of it.

Because those three days are the same source,

Of both hope and remorse,

That kept fueling our souls.

And without the possibility of those odds,

The existence of these three days,

We are lost without any trace.

***

20:54 - 16.01.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

After 470 days, we triumphed.

But the cost was too high.

The scenes we see every day make us relive the tragedy over and over again.

May God have mercy on the martyrs and accept them, and may He heal our hearts.

Please allow us to mourn for what has been lost.

Not all victories mean the end of suffering.

Alhamdulillah, always.

Title: Victory!

**

I know we have won, but the cost was too high

We won, but the scenes of destruction searing my eye

We won upon a lost land

On an empty fatherland

A land that is now just a big graveyard to us, as they planned

They said we lost 40,000 souls so far

But did they look under the mixture of rubble and tar?

There are no streets left

No infrastructure, no hospitals, no schools

I guess they did listen to the call of James Woods

I hope that you're pleased, Mr. Woods.

Seeing us as damaged goods

Forcing our children into the harshness of adulthood!

We are definitely back to the stone ages of livelihood

470 days of constant bombardment and trouble

470 days of screaming under the rubble

470 days of keeping on seeing double

470 days of anticipation, whether we'll be dead or mourn the dead

470 days of losing homes, losing limbs

Losing souls and a lot of kids

470 days of please stay alive, try to be safe

Stay away from the windows

Don't go out at nights

Don't follow the screaming sounds, they are fake

And don't fall asleep under the skies

470 days have passed, we were patiently brave, we showed strength,

Now please let us fall apart

Let’s cry for our lost homes, for our stolen memories from the heart

Let’s mourn the loss of our precious belongings as we mourn our loved ones from the start

We won, we are happy, but we are sad

Please understand

This is a bittersweet feeling that even we don't understand.

So, please don't judge

Don't attack us for having these mixed feelings.

Don't misjudge when you see our self-dealings

We won, so we deserve at least to be at peace with our feelings.

In pursuit of finding some divine healings

And if we cried on screens

If we seemed like we are desperate and disengaged from the scenes

Just remember that we won; giving all we had, by all means!

**

12:04-21.01.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem is inspired by the hardships we have been facing recently - the time of me writing this poem- due to the drop in temperatures over almost 10 days, starting in February. Many people have lost their shelters—essentially tents—because of the strong winds. Among them is my sister, who gave birth on a particularly windy day. She is fortunate to have walls, but no doors or windows. The windows and doors she is having were made from plastic and wood, but they ruptured on February 6th, the day she gave birth to my beautiful nephew.

Additionally, we have witnessed how Trump has supported the state of Israel and openly encouraged our deportation, immigration, and ethnic cleansing here in Gaza. It is ironic, since we don’t ask for much—only to live in peace, to be left alone, and to have simple shelters with walls, windows, and doors.

This poem is, therefore, more of a plea—to be left in peace and to stop these attacks that serve no purpose other than to erase us from the face of the earth. 

**

Beek / bik (verb)

To bask or warm in sunlight or by a fire; also to dry or season wood with heat.

Beeking (noun)

An old term meaning the act of warming or basking by a fire.

Shelly (adjective)

Covered with or resembling shells.

Used here metaphorically to evoke bomb shells.

***

Title: Walls, Windows, and a Door! 

***

Trump, obviously complicit, hates us as he seeks to immigrate us,

And as they plan our evacuation,

This forced immigration,

They leave us to death,

In all its forms.

As he cynically acknowledges the scenes of death and destruction around our homes,

He refuses to say

Who's behind this orchestrated play—

The devil in front of you all,

The sole cause of it in whole. 

The destruction was never a downfall;

He is proud that he kept the war machine rolling,

The death kept enrolling as heads kept bowling.

He smiles with a smirk and eye-rolling,

In disapproval of peace talks presented on the table,

Happy with his three goals and his war label. 

Ironic, true!

But what's more ironic is us being envious of the people who live next door,

Who have walls, windows, and a door.

I hear one saying, as his voice breaks,

He asks, while tears fall and his heart aches,

"Do you have walls, windows, or doors? Or

Is it just a tent like mine, with lots of bores?"

"Can you host me? My tent is leaking.

My kids are freaking, I’m freaking.

Hard to stay beeking as the cold keeps peeking

From the shredded plastic that made our fears reeking.

My plastic door and windows couldn’t hold.

Can I borrow some plastic to fix them, before it gets cold?"

My body parts are frozen,

Working in fear to prevent my kids' tear and their souls from falling into Death's sphere—

By the cold, the glacial thief, who keeps on calling.

Winter used to be the favorite season in Gaza,

With the smell of baking goods,

Hot beverages on the seashores of livelihoods,

And the warmth of fire camps

That hosted at every chance

With barbecues,

Happiness and joy in all avenues.

Now, these same shores are the lone source of despair,

A daily life we have beyond repair.

We used to rush to our homes when we felt the cold,

And the fun was done, and the night was called—

Now, there is no place to rush to.

As the children cry,

And the parents weep,

When tents start to fly

With souls to the heavens deep.

Winter is no longer a friend,

Cold is no longer fun to play pretend.

Campfires only tire

Our exhausted bodies that long to retire.

And as ironic as that sounds,

We only need walls, windows, and a door.

That's all we ask for.

So invest in giving us homes,

Don't send us away.

We've already lost too much up till today.

So let us stay,

On the land that holds our loved ones in its belly,

And where all of our memories lie,

buried under its rubble and houses that are shelly.

We don't ask for too much for you to ignore—

Just walls, windows, and a door. 

*******

06:27-07.02.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem is inspired by something my friend Batool wrote. When I read her words, I couldn't help but reflect on the memories I have of our life in Sudan—how we never experienced such cold weather there. At the same time, I’ve been sick for several days due to the weather here in Gaza. As I read Batool’s poem, these lines began to form in my mind, almost as a reply to her.

Today marks the 507th day since the war began, and while many people may think the situation has changed, it has not. Prices remain high, there is still no electricity, and we are living with the scarcity of cooking gas, which we’re only allowed to purchase in limited quantities each month. It's not enough to even heat water for food or to keep warm.

So, this poem is the result of the tangled emotions I felt while reading her words. Here are the lines that came to me.

**

*507th Day*

****

I woke up this morning

In my grandma’s room,

The room that’s never been finished,

As we had to travel away,

So all of its walls are still grey.

I woke up feeling cold and sick,

We’re not used to this weather anyway,

As we were so, so far away

From the land of our ancestors,

The land we call home today.

I woke up reminiscing today,

On the life we’ve left behind

In my beloved home, in Sudan,

So far from where we are today.

I cried and cried,

Wishing the pain would go away—

The stomachache of my anxieties,

The fever that keeps crawling my way.

It’s the 507th day,

I prayed for mercy to come and stay.

We’re growing tired of hunger, frost,

And despair that continues to play,

Almost every day.

Waiting for the sun’s ray,

To give us warmth's entree,

To disperse the cold away.

We are hopeful today.

***

13:00-24.02.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem was inspired by the onset of the third.

As you can see, our family has lived through two wars—the war in Sudan and the war in Gaza.

"Ironically, the two wars started on Saturday mornings. The Sundays of peace never came." 

We endured two Ramadans, two Eids, and two heartaches of loss and despair during these conflicts.

For me, even my birthdays unfolded amid these two separate wars.

Now, with the start of this third Ramadan, I fear the thirds will follow: a third Eid, a third birthday, and—since the current truce is not holding its end of the deal—we might face a return to war, making it a third ordeal for us.

Most lines in the poem reflect how these two wars mirror each other in the loss and pain they’ve inflicted on us over nearly two years.

I’ve also seen emerging news about how the occupation continues to steal our resources and food, claiming them as its own.

They’ve erased the names of our cities and now plan to force us into exile.

Yet this poem carries a message: despite all these horrors and hardships combined, we remain on free land with free will.

We refuse to abandon our homes or accept the false narrative they are trying to impose.

*The Thirds*

**

Two birthdays during two different wars,

Two heartaches—

standing hollowed, as my two cities fall prey to flames.

On two different Saturdays,

Yet a similar imagery triggered the memory that's engulfed in fiery haze

From Khartoum, my beloved home in Sudan for more than two decades.

You can’t tell the memories apart,

For we were the constant,

the lost ones in those two wars,

the ones who were forced to depart,

Arriving at Gaza in hope of a new start!

I keep on asking,

Why the Sundays never came?

How can you be complicit in this cruel genocidal game?

Their goal is to end us,

wipe us from the earth’s face,

So nothing would be left of us,

not even a name.

Our names terrify them. That’s why they try to wipe out my country’s name.

Taking our land,

Changing its name.

Robbing our culture,

Makes it their heirloom

to claim.

They claimed the names of our hoods,

our rooted beloved olives and earthly foods—

and when your silence spoke volumes,

when you didn’t dare to fight or argue their false values,

they upgraded their game.

The savagery of their actions hit a point of no return!

And as we were trapped within this cruel repeated game,

Losing our minds within a historical waged war in God's name,

Our lives were theirs to claim in this sick, disgusted play of gain.

It filled me and my people with so much fear, loss, and pain,

Left us crippled from this ill-fitting reality full with arcane.

Two Eids during two different wars,

Galvanized in ache and sorrow, in chains,

Waiting for them to decide,

Are we worthy of living under their reign?

Or should we be kept in vain?

Two Ramadans during those two different wars,

Fasting from seeing the light,

from feeling loved,

From feeling alright,

from the right of praising those who fight?

And now, a third one,

a third Ramadan.

So please,

Let this third be the era of change,

Lend us the helping hand we have been waiting to exchange,

We have been denied it for almost eight decades.

So, let it be it, never repeated.

And with the end of it,

The Eid will come,

It will be our glorious celebration

of the new era of ending occupation.

The Palestinians refuse migration.

We will live and die above our land,

the holy land of promised liberation,

under no occupation.

We have the free will against Usurpation.

We dedicate the narration.

Freedom for the nation.

***

04:20-28.02.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem was inspired by the global fight against the many shades of discrimination, injustice, and the ever-shifting faces of supremacy. It echoes the struggles of those worldwide resisting oppression, particularly students in the U.S.-from late 2023 to now. At universities in California like UCLA, UC Berkeley, and other campuses, to schools such as Harvard, NYU, and George Washington University, students organized demonstrations and walkouts. At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), voices faced retaliation: co-editor Prahlad lyengar of the Written Revolution zine was banned.

Now, under the Trump administration's legitimized crackdowns, the White House has escalated deportations targeting students and individuals supporting Palestine, including the arrest of Mahmoud Khaleel, a Columbia University student and activist.

*History repeats itself.*

In April 2024, Columbia University sparked nationwide student encampments demanding divestment from companies tied to Israel, igniting a wave of protests across U.S. campuses. These demonstrations were met with brutality from police and peacekeeper troops under the Biden administration-echoing a history that never truly faded.

These actions expose a regime that suppresses free speech, violates human rights, and aligns itself with fascist tactics, prioritizing the president's rhetoric over justice-whoever that president is and whomever he supports. Once again, the U.S. fails the world, paving the way for its own downfall. It mirrors the very oppressive states it claims to oppose, exposing its hypocritical stance on justice. This time, it will not escape the consequences of its atrocities.

You are becoming the second face of the same coin with IsNotReal.

Wake up, America. 

**

Faces of Supremacy

***

An outdated state.

A forgotten thought.

A false prophet like a snake

should be cut from the throat.

Their expiration day is yet to come:

they will succumb,

even if history’s on their side—now,

they stay scum.

Their devilish actions speak for themselves:

a Zio supremacy, a patronizing behavior!

They think they are superior,

guiding humanity to failure.

Satan can’t be blamed;

He disowned them instead.

They don’t belong to the fabric

of sinful creatures he insinuated.

They are somehow a misfit!

They shouldn’t exist!

Tables are turning.

Nations are learning.

Fires within souls burning.

Students from all over the world,

fighting, praising the Lord

for the freedom of speech

they try suppressing.

Hand in hand, standing;

voices together, chanting.

Winds of change are blowing—

you’ll see a glowing.

The resistance is brewing;

together, will be growing.

History will be rewritten.

We are not forgetting,

nor forgiving.

Will educate the living:

all the atrocities they’ve committed,

the bloodshed, the killing,

the houses they destroyed

over the heads of the living,

the lives they’ve ruined,

their cruel smiting.

We won’t be silenced;

The truth is worth telling.

Evil and good colliding

while you are hiding

behind the blue suits and gold collars

in which you thrive on—

but we will keep the fight on,

exposing your lies

behind your humanitarian disguise.

They deserve no notoriety or fame.

They should be defamed,

banished by the ringing bell of shame.

Disown them, even—

disregard their broken record blame game.

They will be setting themselves aflame,

a destructive flame,

having only themselves to blame.

With you in the house of ill fame

and your White supremacy card game—

you are all the same

in everything but the name! 

***

04.12.2024

Ahmed Sarsour

I wrote this script in Arabic because, honestly, it’s a shameless charade—what we see on the news these days. How they call for international days celebrating peace, women, and human rights, yet turn a blind eye when it comes to marginalized communities like Black, brown, and Muslim communities.

Here’s the original script in Arabic, and I used AI “DeepSeek” to help translate my lines. I hope the translation conveys my messages correctly and delivers the impact I’m aiming for.

So please, if you’re unaware of the issues I’ve mentioned, educate yourself.

Freedom for all.

No one is free until we all are free.

—Ahmed Sarsour

Title: International Women's Day

*******

International Women's Day... What a mockery!

Division based on religion and race still persists...especially when it comes to women.

Have you seen what happened to dark-skinned Sudanese women in displacement camps?

Did the news reach you of what these women must sacrifice just to feed their starving children?

Or did you turn a blind eye because it's not your place to demand rights for women from a country that doesn't concern you, in a state that doesn't affect you?

**

But these nations lost their dignity through your tax money... Colluding with your government's leaders To loot and steal their resources -resources you all fear to acknowledge,terrified it might erode your hegemony...

Terrified of losing yourfalse manhood and fabricated sovereignty...

Have you seen what Palestinian women endured inside their homes? On their own soil? In front of their husbands and children?

**

Did you shut your eyes when occupation soldiers kicked theirwombs carrying their unborn babies?

Did you feel rage when soldiers shamelessly flaunted the undergarments they stole?

Did you feel shame for your silence-even as you chant slogans for human and women's rights on International Women's Day?

This is White Women's Day, not a global one...

When will you equate our women in war zones:

In Sudan... Palestine... Congo...

**

When will you demand justice for the perpetrators of massacres against our sisters in Bosnia, Herzegovina...Kosovo... Chechnya...

Have you read how Afghan women were stripped of education?

Were you moved when you learned of the slaughter of Muslim men and women in Cambodia?

How they were killed in minefields to save bullets...

Because their blood was cheaper than the cost of bullets stockpiled by communist regimes!

*

How Bosniak women were butchered in ethnic cleansing fueled by hatred of Islam-alongside their husbands and children in Bosnia and Herzegovina...

where even the elderly weren't spared?

And the women left behind...left homeless, helpless, with no ally to support them...

How women were widowed and raped in the Hutu-Tutsi massacres in Burundi and Rwanda?

How they were abandoned after their husbands'murders, robbed of their lives, forced to bear full responsibility for their children and homes... digging soil, watering crops-all while denied education!

**

Have you heard about what has happened in the Xinjiang (Uyghur) Autonomous Region? The endorsement of secretive, illegal detention camps where killing, looting, extortion, and the rape of Muslim women occur!

How did this campaign begin with the killing of women praying during Ramadan alongside their children...

And how have these policies-sanctioned by 54 United Nations member states-escalated to enforcing forced sterilization and pregnancy prevention!

**

Did word reach you of the forced displacement and massacres of Kosovar women by Serb beasts?

How did you tolerate policies branded the "Final Solution"-built on communal hatred against Kashmir's Muslims-to justify collective extortion?

How did you stand idle as they dug mass graves to burn bodies and erase the identities of Kashmiri women, children, and men?

**

In Myanmar (once Burma)-have you heard of Rohingya Muslim women?

How they were expelled from their lands? How mosques and homes were burned over their heads?

How many acts of pillage, arson, and rape against the Rohingya were committed in plain sight of the world!

And now-how women are snatched from the very hearts of their homes in the West Bank?

**

When you champion these women's rights...

Then raise your slogans and echo your mantras!

I beg you-wake from your slumber!

Correct your convictions!

Broaden your horizons!

Freedom must embrace all of us-every woman on earth!

Until then...

Do not dare cry out or pretend to celebrate International Women's Day...

**

For our women are blameless for your rotten ideologies and double standards!

Today is Black Women's Day! Muslim Women's Day!

The Day of the Veiled (Hijabi) Woman!

Sudanese Women's Day!

Palestinian Women's Day!

The Day of Every Woman on Earth-from our side, not yours!

We are the ones who honor women's dignity and battle all that stains it! We are the ones who rightfully claim International Women's Day-from the heart of Palestine's soil!

**

19:05 - 08.03.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

Original script (Arabic):

*

يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ العَالَمِيِّ.. يَا لَهَا مِنْ مَهْزَلَةٍ!

التَّفْرِقَةُ عَلَى أَسَاسِ الدِّينِ وَالعِرْقِ لَا تَزَالُ قَائِمَةً.. خُصُوصًا عِنْدَمَا يَتَعَلَّقُ الأَمْرُ بِالنِّسَاءِ.

هَلْ شَهِدْتَ مَا حَدَثَ لِلنِّسَاءِ السُّودَانِيَّاتِ ذَوَاتِ البَشَرَةِ السَّوْدَاءِ فِي مَخَيَّمَاتِ النَّزْوحِ؟

هَلْ وَصَلَتْكَ الأَخْبَارُ عَمَّا تَدْفَعُهُ النِّسَاءُ هُنَاكَ مُقَابِلَ أَنْ تَجِدَ مَا يُسَدُّ جُوعَ أَطْفَالِهِنَّ؟

أَمْ أَنَّكَ غَضَضْتَ الطَّرْفَ لِأَنَّهُ لَيْسَ مِنْ حَقِّكَ أَنْ تُنَادِيَ بِحُقُوقِ امْرَأَةٍ مِنْ دَوْلَةٍ لَا تَمَسُّكَ، فِي دَوْلَةٍ لَا تَخُصُّكَ؟

وَلَكِنَّ هَذِهِ الدُّوَلَ خَسِرَتْ كَرَامَتَهَا بِأَمْوَالِ ضَرَائِبِكَ..

بِالتَّآمُرِ مَعَ قَادَاتِ حُكُومَتِكَ

لِنَهْبِ وَسَرِقَةِ مَوَارِدِهَا الَّتِي تَخْشَوْنَ جَمِيعًا الِاعْتِرَافَ بِهَا خَوْفًا مِنِ انْتِقَاصِ هَيْمَنَتِكُمْ..

خَوْفًا مِنَ انْتِزَاعِ رُجُولَتِكُمْ وَسِيَادَتِكُمُ الزَّائِفَةِ..

هَلْ شَهِدْتَ مَا حَدَثَ لِلنِّسَاءِ الفِلَسْطِينِيَّاتِ دَاخِلَ بُيُوتِهِنَّ؟ عَلَى أَرَاضِيهِنَّ؟ أَمَامَ أَزْوَاجِهِنَّ وَأَطْفَالِهِنَّ؟

هَلْ أَغْمَضْتَ عَيْنَيْكَ حِينَ رَكَلَ جُنُودُ الِاحْتِلَالِ بُطُونَهُنَّ اللَّاتِي تَحْمِلُ أَجِنَّتَهُنَّ؟

هَلْ أَحْسَسْتَ بِالْغَضَبِ اتِّجَاهَ جُنُودِ الِاحْتِلَالِ وَهُمْ يَعْرِضُونَ مَا وَجَدُوا مِنْ مَلَابِسِهِنَّ الدَّاخِلِيَّةِ دُونَ شُعُورٍ بِالْخَجَلِ؟

هَلْ شَعَرْتَ بِالْعَارِ عَلَى صَمْتِكَ؟ وَأَنْتَ تُرَدِّدُ شِعَارَاتِ حُقُوقِ الإِنْسَانِ وَالمَرْأَةِ فِي يَوْمِ المَرْأَةِ العَالَمِيِّ؟

إِنَّهُ يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ البَيْضَاءِ، وَلَيْسَ العَالَمِيَّ..

حِينَ تُسَاوِي بَيْنَ نِسَائِنَا فِي مَنَاطِقِ الحُرُوبِ:

فِي السُّودَانِ.. فِلَسْطِينَ.. وَالكُونْغُو..

حِينَ تُطَالِبُ بِالعَدَالَةِ فِي حَقِّ مُرْتَكِبِي المَجَازِرِ الَّتِي طَالَتْ أَخَوَاتِنَا فِي البُوسْنَى وَالهَرْسَكِ.. فِي كُوسُوفُو.. فِي الشِّيشَانِ..

هَلْ قَرَأْتَ كَيْفَ حُرِّمَتِ النِّسَاءُ الأَفْغَانِيَّاتُ مِنَ التَّعْلِيمِ؟

هَلْ تَأَثَّرْتَ حِينَ عَلِمْتَ عَنْ مَذَابِحِ المُسْلِمِينَ وَالمُسْلِمَاتِ فِي كَمْبُودِيَا؟

كَيْفَ قُتِلُوا فِي حُقُولِ الأَلْغَامِ تَوْفِيرًا لِلرَّصَاصِ..

لِأَنَّ دَمَهُمْ كَانَ أَرْخَصَ أَنْ يُسَاوِيَ تُرْسَانَةَ الذَّخِيرَةِ الَّتِي تَمْتَلِكُهَا الأَحْزَابُ الشِّيُوعِيَّةُ!

كَيْفَ قُتِلَتْ نِسَاءُ البُوشْنَاقِ فِي مَذَابِحِ التَّطْهِيرِ العِرْقِيِّ وَالكُرْهِ الدِّينِيِّ لِلإِسْلَامِ مَعَ أَزْوَاجِهِنَّ وَأَطْفَالِهِنَّ فِي البُوسْنَى وَالهَرْسَكِ.. وَلَمْ يَسْلَمْ حَتَّى كِبَارُ السِّنِّ مِنْ هَذِهِ المَذَابِحِ؟

وَاللَّاتِي تُرِكْنَ مِنَ النِّسَاءِ.. كُنَّ بِلا مَأْوًى وَلَا نَصِيرٍ وَلَا حَلِيفٍ لِيَشُدَّ عَضُدَهُنَّ..

كَيْفَ رُمِّلَتِ النِّسَاءُ وَاغْتُصِبْنَ فِي مَذَابِحِ الهُوتُو وَالتُّوتْسِي فِي بُورُونْدِي وَرُوَانْدَا؟

وَكَيْفَ تُرِكْنَ بَعْدَ أَنْ قُتِلَ أَزْوَاجُهُنَّ، وَحُرِمْنَ مِنْ حَيَاتِهِنَّ، وَتَحَمَّلْنَ المَسْؤُولِيَّةَ كَامِلَةً لِرِعَايَةِ أَطْفَالِهِنَّ وَبُيُوتِهِنَّ.. لِحَفْرِ الأَرْضِ وَسَقَايَةِ الزَّرْعِ مَعَ حِرْمَانِهِنَّ مِنَ التَّعْلِيمِ!

هَلْ وَصَلَ إِلَى مَسَامِعِكَ مَا حَدَثَ فِي إِقْلِيمِ شِينْجِيَانْغ (أُويغُور) ذِي الحُكْمِ الذَّاتِيِّ؟ مَا تَمَّ مِنْ مُبَارَكَةٍ لِمُعَسَّكَراتِ الِاعْتِقَالِ غَيْرِ الشَّرْعِيَّةِ الَّتِي تَتِمُّ فِي سِرِّيَّةٍ لِقَتْلِ.. وَنَهْبِ.. وَابْتِزَازِ.. وَاغْتِصَابِ النِّسَاءِ المُسْلِمَاتِ!

كَيْفَ بَدَأَتْ هَذِهِ الحَرَكَةُ بِقَتْلِ نِسَاءٍ مُصَلِّيَاتٍ فِي رَمَضَانَ مَعَ أَطْفَالِهِنَّ..

وَتَطَوَّرَتْ هَذِهِ السِّياسَاتُ (الَّتِي تُمِتْ بِمُبَارَكَةِ 54 دَوْلَةً مِنْ دُوَلِ الأَعْضَاءِ فِي الأُمَمِ المُتَّحِدَةِ) إِلَى دَعْمِ التَّعْقِيمِ القَسْرِيِّ وَمَنْعِ الحَمْلِ!

هَلْ قَرَأْتَ عَنِ التَّهْجِيرِ القَسْرِيِّ وَالمَذَابِحِ الَّتِي طَالَتْ نِسَاءَ كُوسُوفُو عَلَى أَيْدِي الوُحُوشِ الصِّرْبِيَّةِ؟

كَيْفَ سَمَحْتُمْ لِلسِّياسَاتِ الَّتِي سُمِّيَتْ بِـ"الحَلِّ النِّهَائِيِّ" القَائِمِ عَلَى العَصَبِيَّةِ تُجَاهَ المُسْلِمِينَ فِي كَشْمِيرَ، لِتَحْقِيقِ الِابْتِزَازِ الجَمَاعِيِّ؟ وَوَقَفْتُمْ مُتَفَرِجينَ عَلَى مَا جَرَى.. وَهُمْ يَحْفُرونَ القُبُورَ الجَمَاعِيَّةَ لِحَرْقِ الجُثَثِ وَطَمْسِ هَوِيَّاتِ نِسَاءٍ وَأَطْفَالٍ وَرِجَالِ كَشْمِيرَ!

فِي مَيَانْمَارَ (سَابِقًا: بِورْمَا).. هَلْ سَمِعْتَ عَنْ مُسْلِمَاتِ الرُّوهِينْجَا؟ كَيْفَ طُرِدْنَ مِنْ أَرَاضِيهِنَّ؟ كَيْفَ أُحْرِقَتِ المَسَاجِدُ وَالبُيُوتُ عَلَى رُؤُوسِ نُزَلاءِهَا؟

كَمْ مِنْ عَمَلِيَّاتِ نَهْبٍ وَإِحْرَاقٍ وَاغْتِصَابٍ لِمُسْلِمِي الرُّوهِينْجَا ارْتُكِبَتْ عَلَى نِطَاقٍ وَاسِعٍ وَعَلَى مَرْأَىً مِنَ العَالَمِ!

وَكَيْفَ الْآنَ يُخْتَطَفُ النِّسَاءُ مِنْ قُلُوبِ بُيُوتِهِنَّ فِي الضَّفَّةِ الغَرْبِيَّةِ؟

حِينَ تُنَادِي بِحُقُوقِ هَؤُلَاءِ..

حِينَئِذٍ.. ارْفَعْ شِعَارَاتِكَ وَرَدِّدْ عِبَارَاتِكَ!

أَرْجُوكُمْ.. أَفِيقُوا مِنْ سُبَاتِكُمْ!

صَحِّحُوا مُعْتَقَدَاتِكُمْ!

وَوَسِّعُوا آفَاقَكُمْ!

الحُرِّيَّةُ يَجِبُ أَنْ تَشْمَلَنَا كُلَّنَا.. وَكُلَّ نِسَاءِ الأَرْضِ!

إِلَى ذَلِكَ الحِينِ..

أَرْجُوكَ لَا تَصْرُخْ وَلَا تحاول الاحتفال بِيَوْمِ المَرْأَةِ العَالَمِيِّ..

فَنِسَاءُنَا بَرِيئَاتٌ مِنْ فَسَادِ مُعْتَقَدَاتِكُمْ وَازْدِوَاجِيَّةِ مَعَايِيرِكُمْ!

اليَوْمُ.. يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ السَّوْدَاءِ! يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ المُسْلِمَةِ!

يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ المُحَجَّبَةِ!

يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ السُّودَانِيَّةِ!

يَوْمُ المَرْأَةِ الفِلَسْطِينِيَّةِ!

يَوْمُ كُلِّ نِسَاءِ الأَرْضِ.. مِنْ جِهَتِنَا لَا جِهَتِكُمْ!

نَحْنُ الَّذِينَ نَعْتَزُّ بِشَرَفِ المَرْأَةِ وَنُحَارِبُ كُلَّ مَا يَسِمُهَا!

نَحْنُ الَّذِينَ نُنَادِي بِحَقٍّ..

بِيَوْمِ المَرْأَةِ العَالَمِيِّ مِنْ قَلْبِ الأَرَاضِي الفِلَسْطِينِيَّةِ!

**

19:05 - 08.03.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This poem shouldn’t need an introduction. After what we witnessed yesterday—from the whole world, not just The zionist state or the complicit Trump administration—I’m holding all of you accountable. I’m losing hope; I’m sleep-deprived, and the nightmares are starting again, literally *and* figuratively.

I’m calling out your hypocrisy, your bias, and your theft of the blood of my people, of the struggles and suffering we endure while you enjoy life outside this prison you’ve accepted for us. Before you stands the entire Arab and Muslim Ummah, watching silently as we are slaughtered in this holy month. I’m disgusted by your actions, your silence, and your double-faced reality.

I'm enraged, I will neither forget nor forgive—Allah is my witness. I will see you before Him and His law, where no one can lie to His face. I’m done with you all. I hate you. I want nothing from you. Let us die in silence. Don’t share our suffering, don’t post updates, don’t attend protests—it’s all useless.

Go about your lives. Enjoy them while you can, for you belong in hell. I send you the deepest wishes of suffering at the hands of our oppressors—may you feel what we feel and finally understand.

Ahmed Sarsour,

A Sudanese trapped in the watermelon land.

Fuck you all. 

**

**True Colors! **

***

My body shivers,

My voice is rumbling,

My eyes tear,

And my Hope is crumbling.

The nightmares are back—

Figuratively and literally.

For you were there to back

Up the atrocities they called back.

Your silence disgusts me,

Your complicity makes me sick.

The Trump administration should burn in hell—

Their clocks should tick.

No need to pretend they weren’t aware of this Zio’s con trick.

Your true colors have shown,

Back to the slaughter and killing

Of innocent women, kids, and infants who just leaped into living.

More than 400 souls in less than a day,

While claiming “seeking humane solutions” every day?

Yet, you approved our destruction as if we were made of clay?

You threaten us and ask us to obey.

You bomb us because you say we didn’t obey.

Then you go back and back and back—

You keep on launching full attack:

A maniacal مانايكل attack—

To force the negotiations already set to come back.

Are you hearing yourselves? You elitist supremacist scumbag!

I hope you are okay—

The Arab leaders who did obey.

Hope you are happy:

The ceasefire’s breached; the genocide’s back in play.

And you opportunists, “beneficial” pragmatic advocates—

You take our suffering and profit off of it:

Raising money in our name,

Claiming you would help us,

Then turn your backs on us.

You soulless scammers, bloodlust profiteers—

You disgust me like the ones who murder us.

I hate you just the same.

Back to the horror show—

To the scarcity of sheets that cover our departed souls.

Back to sleepless nights filled with anxiety, all again—

To feeling the helplessness and the pain

Under their terror reign,

To pray every night to survive their fiery rain.

Our loved ones await us on the other side.

Our sorrows will be demised. 

We will be alright—

There in the heavens,

Allah will treat us right.

Grant us a haven so bright.

So don’t you dare raise your slogans.

Don’t you dare say we’re worth more than you show us.

Don’t you say “freedom for all”

Or advocate for the free speech toll.

You are rotten from within—

From Democratic parties to Republican.

Your hypocrisy shows—

Your two-faced snake tails loom on us all.

We see you for who you are:

Just a fucked-up tyrannic state afraid of its fall! 

****

16:22 - 18.03.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

الغريب أنني أصبحت تستهويني السياسة..

لو عدت بالزمن للوراء بضع سنين ما كنت ستصدق أنني الآن أتابع السياسات الأمريكية.. كيف ان ترامب يدعم شركاته ويحارب الصين.. كيف بيده يخلق هذا الانهيار الاقتصادي؟!

سوق البورصه كل يوم متغير والأرقام لا تبشر بخير.. 

الإمارات والسعودية وتركيا تطبع مع اسرائيل وعلى شاشات التلفاز تستنكر ما يحدث لنا في غزة..

سوريا تحررت ولكن بعض السياسات الجديدة تتوجه نحو التطبيع.. 

ولا داعي للحديث عن الدولة العربية الشقيقة التي ما استطاعت أن تحمي محورها التي تحمل توقيعا من إسرائيل بعدم المساس به..

ولكن إسرائيل اليوم سيدة العالم ووجهة الشرق والغرب..

لا أعتقد أنني سأندهش ان أصبحت وجهة الحج الجديدة إلى تل أبيب.. فربما ستستطيع أن تقنع العرب بهدم المسجد الأقصى وبناء الهيكل ليطوف حوله اليهود والمسلمين سويا..

استيقظ صباحا مثقلا.. فسهر البارحة لا زال يخط خطوطه على وجهي.. والروتين القاتل من تسخين ماء الشاي والطهي على فرن الطين في منزل عمتي يثقل كاهلي..

اخطو هذه الأمتار بين بيتنا وبيتهم فوق العشرين مره كل يوم بل وثلاثين..

أسخن أرز التكية الذي يأتينا في بعض الأحيان بلا طعم ولا رائحة.. الأسوأ منه البرغل الذي لم نذقه بتاتا.. حتى الدجاج رفض تذوقه..

نعم بعض الناس لا زال لديهم بعض الدجاج الذي يتفضل عليهم بييضة كل 4 أيام..

ومع كل يوم جديد أسأل أمي.. ماذا سنطبخ غدا؟

الخبز لا طعم له حتى.. طحين المساعدات بائس لونه كلون التراب.. ويتعفن أسرع من جثت الشهداء التي لا زالت ملقاة تحت الأنقاض..

لانه حتى الاليات المعدة لإنقاذ الناس وإخراج الجثث استهدفت أيضا.. مثلها مثل أي مدني سقط ضحية لأهداف حرب نتنياهو المقيتة.. 

كل يوم استهداف جديد.. ودير البلح المدينه التي كانت آمنة أصبحت تودع كل يوم حفنة من خيره سكانها...

لا زال وقع عمتي في أذني كلما أزورها.. اليهود مكانوش هيكد زمان..

أمازحها:

طيب يعمه شو الاتغير؟

ترد على بصوتها البشوش:أنا بعلم؟!.

وتتبعها بضحكة.. غالبا ما تنهي كل جملها بها.. 

بعد كل ما تقوله كأنها تسخر من يهود هذا الزمان الذين بدورهم يسخرون منا ويتفننون في أساليبهم التي تحرمنا وتسلبنا من كل ما نملك..

الأيام تجري بصخب.. فكل يوم عبارة عن عذاب جديد.. 

أتصبر بالفيديوهات التي التقطتها لأطفال أخواتي حين كانوا معنا.. وأشعر بالحنين لضمهم إلى صدري كما كنت أفعل.. 

واتذكر انني لم احمل يوسف ابن اختي المولود الجديد بين يدي حتى هذه اللحظة.. سوف يتم شهره الثالث ونحن لم نره إلا مرة واحدة.. 

أمي تخبرني أن روز توزع القبلات على كل من تراه.. وأمها رانيا تقول انها مشاغبة تستهوي مضايقة يوسف.. 

وأنا كل ما يذكرونها أتذكر كيف كنت أضمها لصدري حين كان عمرها يومان و7 أيام.. كيف كانت تنام على سريري وكيف كنت ارضعها وأهدهدها.. 

كيف كانت تطمئن لرائحتي وتسكن.. 

في أول مره زرت اختي بعد رحيلهم عنا.. روز لم تتعرف علي..لم تدعني أحملها.. ولم استطع ان اسرق قبلة أضعها على خدها الا عند الوداع.. 

ولم ابقى لاعرف هل بكائها كان بسبب رحيلي ام ان قبلتي ضايقتها؟ 

قبل بضعة أيام صرحت بالانجليزية ان هذه الحرب يجب أن تنتهي.. 

لم يعد هناك شيء لم تلقمه الحرب.. وأصوات أفواه الجوعى ومناشدات المرضى لم يعد يحتمل! 

لا داعي للقول أن البعض لم يعجبه تصريحي..

ظنا منهم ان شعب غزة لا يجب أن يقول هكذا..

هم يودون ان نكون مجالدين للصبر.. يودون ان نفدي بدمنا وحياتنا وعائلاتنا وبيوتنا اله الحرب المقيتة..

تصورهم عنا هو أننا نستطيع أن نتحمل أكثر وأكثر.. أكثر من صبر النبي أيوب..

وهيهات أن نعترض او ان نطلب الرحمة!

لا أدري متى ستنتهي آلة القتل المقيتة..

ولا لمتى سنظل تحت هذا الحصار؟

الشيء الوحيد الذي أعرفه تمام المعرفة واعيه جيدا هو أن هذه الحرب ليست حرب آخر الزمان..

وان هذه الحرب لن تحرر فلسطين..

لا أدري اي أهداف تحققت بعد أن خسرنا كل شي هنا..

لكن اتمنى ان تكون هذه الحرب بداية الحراك في كل العالم.. 

الخطوة الأولى لخلق عالم حر يتساوى فيه جميع البشر.. 

عالم خالي من جشع وطمع الرأسماليين وتجار الدين والأزمات..

أتمنى أن يصحو العالم.. وتغفو اله الحرب.. 

والله اعلم.. 

**

02:44 - 28.04.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

I wrote this poem out of despair. You may hear it through my lines. These are the atrocities they’ve been committing against us since the beginning of the war.

They made us their lab rats—tried everything and anything.

They starved us, stripped us of our dignity.

They gave us rabies, skin diseases, and left us to die from all kinds of illnesses.

And when Trump took office, they multiplied their actions blatantly.

Just a few days ago, I saw several posts circulating on social media where you-know-who were praising the complicit Arab nations who stood by their side.

Some Arabs even went live and took an oath to be their ally, saying they don’t care about us here in Gaza or Palestine.

And just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, they made public statements calling for the killing of all of us—even the children—so the children wouldn’t grow up and come for them, seeking vengeance for their parents.

So, I don’t know what more I should say.

It’s been almost 600 days now, and nothing has changed.

So—hurray, indeed—for the Arab and Muslim nations.

And for the whole world, for binge-watching and doing nothing.

Thank you all.

****

Title: Successful Trial

****

A trial, they said!

Let's cut off the hygienic products.

Let them itch with fungus — and rabies too.

How about cutting off medicine?

How many will die

if we apply:

the ones on dialysis,

cancer patients,

the NICU babies,

mothers in labor, ER patients,

amputees, burn victims of multiple degrees?

Run the stats,

& move to the next plan.

Let’s stir more scenes.

Let's double the prices —

no, multiply them.

Get them to a thousandfold.

Let them see the food,

touch it,

smell it —

but never be able to get it.

And yes,

keep on bombing.

Carpeting the homes,

flatten the cities —

whatever you may see,

level it to the ground so we will be able to see

the land we will take from them,

from the settlements' edge

to the Mediterranean Sea.

& if they are displaced to the seashores,

bomb them there too.

Close the borders

in front of aid.

Stop sending them clothes —

no blankets,

no sweatshirts,

not any kind of heavy clothes.

How many will survive the storming colds?

Have we tried chemicals yet?

Phosphorous bombs?

Are their limbs deteriorating even if they survive?

Shut down the bakeries.

Loot the flour.

Destroy the schools.

Bomb the hospitals.

Markets.

Streets.

Everywhere.

Anywhere.

Kill them all.

Even the kids —

especially the kids.

So they never grow up

to remember,

to fight,

to avenge us

for killing their parents,

their loved ones,

their dreams.

Don't let them grow

to hate us —

us and the world.

The complicit Muslim and Arab nations

who stood by our side,

defending us,

praising us,

paying / funding us

to keep on the massacres going,

to keep on the awful reality they live in growing.

Kill them,

bomb them,

starve them,

burn them.

Now it's our chance.

The world is binge-watching —

in silence.

In solidarity.

Some in awe —

cheering for us

to cleanse the land

of these vermin:

Filthy Gazans.

Filthy Muslims.

And finally —

Hooray, 

No one gives a damn.

****

04:10-24.05.2025

Ahmed Sarsour

This piece is inspired by a post I read by a friend who was once with me in Sudan and is now, at the time of writing this poem, trapped in the north. It was more of a plea, actually. He implored other nations not to grow accustomed to the crisis and forget about them (the people in the north). He wrote: “We still fight to survive. We struggle to find food, water, and shelter. We are still dying. So don’t forget about us! If you think you are not -in this- with us, you are wrong.”

There are more posts of a similar nature that kept popping up on my feed. My heart bleeds knowing the north continues to suffer to this day, 5th of December 2024, and with Israel’s decision to keep withholding aid, I fear we may be next. Us in the south and middle area.

I wrote this poem on the 5th of December last year, when the north was already grappling with famine, hunger, and scarcity of all resources. How eerily similar today, June 2025, as I make the last edits to release the poem, feels to yesterday, mirroring the same suffering now unfolding. This poem was born from that despair, a cry for a world that turns away as people starve, thirst, and perish.

Please do not turn your backs on us. We still need your support. Keep pressuring your leaders to push the deal forward. If you don’t, believe me, you will be next one day. This fascist regime shows no mercy, recognizes no other states, and has declared its superiority over all of humanity. They are enemies to every human being.

Your voice matters! Freedom for Filasteen.

*Title: Filasteen!*

**

People are being killed, still.

Still, there’s mourning.

People leave their houses, still.

Still, there’s bombing.

Water is rare to find, still.

Still, there are fountains of blood that’s shedding.

Not enough food is getting in.

Still, there’s famine, people are starving.

You are getting used to the scene.

It keeps popping on your screen.

You ask yourself, “What’s with this Obscene?”

Is it really this hellish or exaggerated?

This needs to stop, not escalated!

This shouldn’t be propagated.

You shout in disgust,

“Stop this obscene, you’re ruining our lives routine!”

Why you keep on chanting, “Freedom for Filasteen?”

But what is Filasteen?

On our side, it’s all true.

Seeking food, water, and shelter is always a hard task to do!

In Filasteen, we live on scraps, like rats.

Throwing us crumbs of bread,

They want us to forget,

Can’t hold them accountable,

Can’t pay our debt.

Disengaging from society, wondering “What will we get?”

We’re getting sick.

Our clocks tick.

Our buckets kicked.

“You think you’re slick?”

Away from the risk—

Well,

It’s a matter of time before they come for your neck.

***

21:56 – 05.12.2024 

Ahmed Sarsour

I wrote this piece in Arabic in the year 2012.

On the first day of the Hijri year 1434,

there was a war on Gaza, and it was a holiday in the Arab countries...

The war was called “Operation Pillar of Cloud,” as the Zionists named it.

It started on November 14, 2012, which was at the beginning of the Hijri year 1434.

• Israeli airstrikes completely destroyed more than 200 residential buildings, and around 8,000 residential buildings were partially damaged.

• 42 non-residential buildings were completely destroyed, including government and security offices.

• The airstrikes targeted Hamas command centers, missile manufacturing and storage sites, but they also targeted homes, tents of displaced people, and hospitals.

• 124 houses were completely destroyed, and about 2,050 houses were partially damaged.

• Israel destroyed 52 places of worship, 25 NGOs, 97 schools, 15 health institutions, 14 journalist offices, 8 police stations, and 16 government buildings.

• Additionally, 15 factories, 192 shops, 12 water wells, and agricultural lands were destroyed.

• The total estimated material damage was about 1.245 billion US dollars.

• The bombing caused many Palestinian families to be displaced, with 174 Palestinian martyrs, including 107 civilians, and hundreds more injured.

As stated in United Nations reports and some local sources in Gaza...

All of this damage happened in a war that lasted only 8 days...

Can you imagine what is happening now after 630 days...?

I remembered this text since we are at the beginning of the Hijri year 1447,

and I wanted to translate it and share it again because today resembles yesterday so much...

Praise be to God in all circumstances.

Today, let it be your migration to Allah as he wills and pleases. 

-Hijra means migration. 

*

Title: A New Hijra! 

***********

Muslims. Believers. The Nation of Muhammad. Arabs.

That’s what we’ve always called ourselves.

We take pride in our Islam, our faith, our Prophet, our heritage —

But only on paper.

Religion: Muslim.

Today, Israel celebrates on your behalf —

Welcoming your new Hijri year with fresh massacres.

And all that matters to you… is that today is a holiday.

Palestine is a people’s tragedy with no end.

Another chapter in a book titled "The Apathetic Arabs."

Children die before they even learn what life is.

Men are killed trying to give life meaning.

And us?

We sit here…

Today is a holiday! Let’s go out for a walk.

Today is a holiday! Let’s plan a trip.

Today is a holiday! Let’s sing and dance.

This is who we've become:

Quick to blame the world, but never ourselves.

We’ve wronged everyone.

And we’ve wronged ourselves.

Yet we still fear admitting our guilt.

At the faintest flicker of conscience, we remember —

We have a Lord who answers prayers.

So we pray and plead… but take no action.

We believe that some miracle will occur —

That by whispering a few words,

Our cries will rise to the heavens,

And God will respond.

That He’ll send down His angels,

And we’ll be showered in blessings.

This is who we are now.

But who were we?

Today marks a new birth.

Today, a new constitution is written.

So let this be our Hijra —

each of us, God’s servants, returning to Him as He wills and pleases.

17:13 - November 15, 2012

(1 Muharram 1434 AH)

Ahmed Sarsour

**

كتبت هذا النص بالعربي في سنة 2012.

في أول يوم من السنة الهجرية لعام 1434،

كانت هناك حرب على غزة، وكانت عطلة في الدول العربية...

كانت الحرب تسمى "عملية عامود السحاب" حسب ما سمّاها الصهيونيون.

بدأت في 14 نوفمبر 2012، أي في بداية السنة الهجرية 1434.

دمرت الغارات الإسرائيلية أكثر من 200 مبنى سكني بشكل كامل، وتضرر حوالي 8,000 مبنى سكني جزئيًا.

تم تدمير 42 مبنى غير سكني بشكل كامل، منها مبانٍ ومقار حكومية وأمنية.

استهدفت الغارات مراكز قيادة حماس، ومواقع تصنيع وتخزين صواريخ، لكنّها استهدفت أيضًا منازل، وخيام النازحين، ومستشفيات.

تم تدمير 124 منزلًا بشكل كامل، وتضرر جزئيًا حوالي 2,050 منزلًا.

دمرت إسرائيل 52 مكان عبادة، و25 منظمة غير حكومية، و97 مدرسة، و15 مؤسسة صحية، و14 مقرًا للصحفيين، و8 مراكز شرطة، و16 مبنى حكوميًا.

كما تم تدمير 15 مصنعًا، و192 محلًا تجاريًا، و12 بئرًا للمياه، وأراضٍ زراعية.

بلغت قيمة الأضرار المادية حوالي 1.245 مليار دولار.

تسبب القصف في تشريد العديد من الأسر الفلسطينية، مع سقوط 174 شهيدًا فلسطينيًا، منهم 107 مدنيين، وإصابة المئات.

كما ذكر في تقارير الأمم المتحدة وبعض المصادر المحلية في غزه.. 

كل هذه الأضرار كانت في حرب استمرت لمدة 8 أيام فقط...

هل تتخيل ماذا يحدث الآن بعد 630 يومًا...؟

تذكرت النص لأننا في بداية السنة الهجرية 1447،

وحبيت أترجمه وأعيد نشره لأن اليوم يشبه الأمس كثيرًا...

الحمد لله على كل حال.

اليوم، فلنجعلها هجرة للرب من كل العبيد...

**

 العنوان: هجرة جديدة! 

مسلمون... مؤمنون... أمة محمد... عرب!!

هذا ما اعتدنا أن نطلق على أنفسنا...

نفتخر بإسلامنا، بديننا، برسولنا، بأصولنا؛ ولكن كله على ورق!!

الديانة: مسلم.

إسرائيل تحتفل عنكم اليوم، تستقبل عامكم الهجري الجديد بمذابح أجد... 

وأنتم كل ما يهمكم أن اليوم عطلة...

فلسطين مأساة شعب لا تنتهي...

وفصول قادمة في كتاب اسمه "عرب اللامبالاة".

أطفال تموت قبل أن تعرف ما هي الحياة؟

ورجال تُقتل في سبيل تعريف الحياة!!

ونحن...؟!

نحن هاهنا جالسون...

اليوم عطلة!! فلنأخذ بيد بعضنا ونتنزه...

اليوم عطلة!! فلنذهب في رحلة...

اليوم عطلة!! فلنغنِّ ونرقص...

أصبحنا هكذا؛ نلوم الناس ولا نلوم أنفسنا...

أخطأنا في حق الكل، وأخطأنا في حق أنفسنا...

ولا زلنا نخشى الاعتراف بذنبنا!!

وعند أقل ومضة في مصباح ضميرنا؛ نتذكر أن لنا ربًا يستجيب...

نتوجه بالدعاء والابتهال بلا عمل...

نظن أن سحرًا سيحدث، بتمتمة كلمات يصل صوتنا لإلهنا ويستجيب...

سينزل ملائكته لتحل علينا بركاته...

هكذا أصبحنا... فكيف كنا؟!!

اليوم ميلاد جديد...

اليوم دستور جديد...

اليوم فلنجعلها هجرة للرب من كل العبيد...

17:13 - November 15, 2012

(1 Muharram 1434 AH)

Ahmed Sarsour 

A lot of unsettling images have emerged from Sudan, especially from Al-Fashir — the city that once stood tall against the tyrant aggression of the RSF militia, backed by the UAE.

What makes this even more horrific is that the criminals themselves are the ones documenting their crimes.

In most of the footage, you can see their shadows on the ground, holding their guns and rifles high in the faces of unarmed civilians — men, women, and even children.

There is one video that haunts me deeply: a mother holding her baby girl, who must be around two years old or even younger, in her arms. Her two sons, maybe four to six years old, are crying beside her. She tries to protect them, to cover them with her body, but there’s only so much she can do. The kids are crying, and so is their mother, facing the cruelty of the RSF militant standing before her. On her face, you can see bitterness, fear, and complete helplessness.

That was just one of so many videos taken by the aggressors themselves, taunting and laughing at Sudanese civilians as they depart this unjust life.

The war in Sudan has been going on for more than two and a half years — 928 days when I wrote this poem, the day Al-Fashir fell.

Sudan is a rich region, full of gold and other minerals, with oil and the largest river in the world — the source of fresh water for livestock, agriculture, and its huge population. It also holds great fishing wealth in both the Nile and the Red Sea, and its strategic location in the heart of Africa connects trade routes through its port on the Red Sea.

We must demand the freedom of my people in Sudan — our brothers and sisters — and end the reign of terror led by greedy Western and Arab nations who only seek power and resources to fuel their capitalist, imperialist empires.

*

Title: Tears of Humanity! 

**

Their shadows stood before them,

witnessing the crime they are about to commit.

The earth shook beneath them,

reminding them: these are humans you are fighting against.

As they raised their weapons high,

the child started to cry,

burying his head into his mother’s arms,

away from the weapon’s eye.

But their cruelty has known no limits.

They killed them in cold blood —

a mother and her 3 children have died! 

They wept on your 4K fancy screen;

their tears implored for their lives.

They begged to be spared, to let them survive.

They pleaded: they are your brothers and sisters;

believe us, not the racial segregation lies.

Lies spread by complicit Arab nations,

and backed by the Western tech allies.

Their eyes roam the skies;

their drones attack unarmed civilians,

in their shelters made out of hay, prayers, and cries.

Al-Fashir has fallen,

but it’s not the end.

Raise your voice!

Call for an action to make the RSF bend.

Expose their agenda,

their devilish, relentless, UAE fake friend.

Sudan needs you.

So speak up, be vocal —

get your morals to ascend.

Their terror reign must come to an end.

***

Ahmed Sarsour 

15:06 — 29.10.2025

This poem calls out the ones who help and support the state of Israel in controlling us and killing us.

It calls out the governments and big tech companies that provide weapons, technology, artificial intelligence, and surveillance systems — from face recognition to voice tracking and mass monitoring. They sit behind their screens while unarmed civilians and children are being killed.

It calls out companies like Microsoft, Google, and Meta, and the countries that continue sending weapons — especially the United States, and also European countries such as France and Italy.

The poem also speaks about the scenes we keep witnessing during arrests in Gaza and the West Bank — men stripped to their underwear, humiliated in public. Scenes that remind us of the crimes committed under the Nazi regime during the Holocaust, when people were stripped of dignity before being destroyed.

In Palestine today, there have been serious reports and testimonies about abuse and sexual violence against detainees, including men. Stripping them, humiliating them, breaking their spirits. Some cases have been recorded and shared widely,

How they took it too far by raping them, yes! Raping the men, same and even worse than what they do to women, yet many people still look away.

The poem asks: will anyone speak about these crimes? About what happens inside prisons? Even when the world sees footage and hears testimonies, many stay silent. Like they reports of the tape cases that involved IDF soldiers, yet they didn't investigate any further and on social media, they have been cheered for as if they were heroes! 

Same to what's happening in the US, 

It draws a parallel to what is happening there where immigration enforcement agencies like ICE have been accused of humiliating detainees during raids, taking them in their underwear or half naked.

This poem is not quiet.

It demands that people stop pretending not to see.

You have to choose.

Us — or them.

**

Body chant! 

***

They want to erase. 

All of our trace. 

They force us to run; we hide, they seek, pointing their gun. 

Lurking behind their screen. 

A missile aimed for the children, drones for the unseen. 

They are inhumane, denying our right to feel pain.

Like it does not even matter. 

As if their actions can't shatter. 

Exposing their lies. 

Their wolf cries. 

& Calling out your bias, for the ones you call allies. 

The babies beheaders, the rapists, the awful sinners. 

They did to men tenfold what they did to women. 

Stripping them of their clothes,

piece by piece, they pause! 

Asking them to take a pose. 

Like models on a runway. 

Like mannequins on display.

Stripping them down of their dignity, 

stripping them out of their souls. 

In a quest of making them suffer, 

In favor of grinding their souls, 

They use them to buffer, 

As a human shield. 

They shout :"All kneel! "

Their lives have been stolen. 

Their bones have been broken. 

Their bodies can't take it anymore, 

They just can't. 

You can hear them chant,

throwing us in chains.

They want to erase,

All of our trace! 

Will they be successful behind their masked face? 

In a golden Goose chase. 

Will you be Jack or the giant in this case? 

will you expose their hidden agenda, make them retrace? 

will you be standing to the end—Unyielding,

Not afraid of falling from their grace? 

Maybe they will succeed, 

Throwing at us all shades of craze. 

But

It's pursuit we can never replace.

We will expose their deceit,

Their committed violence on repeat. 

So

You are either with us or with them, in defeat. 

*****

06:10 - 14.12.2024

Ahmed Sarsour 

I remember, at the beginning of my first encounters with social media influencers, I was so relieved when I got connected with big accounts.

But unfortunately, it didn’t help.

I’m self-taught in English. Some told me I didn’t need help since I could convey my own story.

Others said they would help, then bailed on me.

Others were mad when I didn’t add their names to my posts—every time I posted.

And what I hated the most were those who were always talking about us, but never took the chance to talk to us.

I remember one time I asked someone in a livestream if I could join. I only wanted to recite poetry from Gaza.

He was talking about Gaza, about how he was in Egypt to fundraise for families and meet those who had the chance to evacuate.

He replied, “I don’t know you like that. I can’t just add you.”

Then he started rapping to music, saying this was his talent, dancing in the street.

I felt embarrassed.

I saw how vocal he was about us, and I thought, this is a nice guy—maybe he could help amplify my voice.

I was mistaken.

Then I encountered more and more people like that. Even worse.

Some called me a thief. Some said I was using my people’s suffering to collect money for myself.

Others said I was a fraud and not even in Gaza.

They questioned how I spoke fluently and wove poetry. It felt so degrading—like I didn’t have the right to be sophisticated or eloquent.

They only see us as beggars.

I hated how humiliating that made me feel. And even after they confirmed that I was in Gaza, and knew they had been cruel and wrong with those accusations, they never bothered to apologize.

It gave me an anxiety attack at the time.

This was after I lost my platform on TikTok and started rebuilding on Instagram. I didn’t have many followers, and I thought I was going to lose everything I had built—again—because of how someone chooses to look down on you and never question themselves, rooted in white supremacy.

I know a lot of people within the movement are white, but they need to understand that we are all equal.

You can’t say you want to help, yet look down on me.

I believe that if you truly want to help, you need to ask me what I need and how you can help—not just do whatever you want.

It’s like I’m dying of thirst and you bring me heavy clothes.

It doesn’t add up.

It always felt hard for me to make connections because I thought I didn’t have much in common with others. Within the movement, I felt connected—but I realized that was wrong.

It’s the same again.

There are a lot of people with personal agendas: some after fame, some after money, and some after sabotage.

Not everyone within the movement is a friend.

And I don’t know if I should expose those who disappointed and neglected me because I’m just another Gazan—not famous, not influential enough, not an “interesting” story.

When all I needed at the beginning of the genocide was to be evacuated.

I was only seeking safety—but they didn’t care. That story wasn’t going to get them views.

This poem isn’t about me.

It’s about a lot of Gazans.

I have been asking people to get in touch with the people here in person.

No need to start initiatives or organizations on your own. No need for a middleman.

Do it yourself. In person. Away from social media.

We just want to be seen and to connect on a human level.

If you only knew.

Title: Views/influence! 

***

While I'm being starved for views

Seeking help from those who refuse

To share my stories

To amplify My voice

As me a voice from Gaza

How come I have a muse? 

It actually happened: 

They questioned my artistic creation

& How I still hold my head high among such devastation! 

They said: how do you have such emotional articulation? 

Gazans, don't have that. 

They are simply a form of degradation! 

Crawling into my room, 

Faced with my fears and anxieties. 

Feeling ashamed I couldn't help all the families, 

The ones I promised to help out get some basic necessities 

And as I fall into despair, 

As my voice breaks beyond repair, 

I tend to self isolate, 

and self sabotage! 

Blaming the odds that brought me here, 

How come people could act,

with such cruelty when having doubt? 

Have they missed the point, 

Or is it I who's wrong?

I don't deserve the clout.

Looking into the vacuum of social media’s theatrical scene,

desperately trying, getting people’s attention to my people’s dream.

I can hear them — help us be seen!

It’s shattering me; I need to come clean.

I tell them, I'm sorry to inform you, but people don't actually care, 

Although I keep on trying without any kind of despair 

Because when I manage getting ado,

Influencers get in my dms, they promise to help —but they never do.

They disappear, stop communicating,

sitting on their high thrones,

as if they were gods,

forgetting all about our odds and the promises they oath to keep for us.

I’m getting shadowbanned

by the ones supporting the cause —

the ones I thought they oppose

injustice, the world’s cruelty, and our killing odds.

Yet their accounts scream

Of self-agenda and personal gain scheme

They are so busy talking about us

Insted of talking to us.

They say they would save us

But first they need to get famous!

I hear my broken voice reciting poems.

I think to myself, they matter — my poems do matter!

Even though I die with each line that feels like a dagger,

going into my heart, into my soul —

the one they keep on putting on a pedestal.

With the souls of so many,

Of those who came before us,

Who fought the shackles they threw on us. 

But that's the price we have to pay

for screaming into the void, refusing to say:

we surrender, we obey.

And while I wish if I were an influencer with schemes,

If I were looking from outside at these scenes,

If I were a citizen of the US, with a pale white skin —

Wearing it to dispense my sin —

To bleach what's dark within.

Acting superior, a descendant of Columbus, The imperial.

But I’m me —

A Gazan, a Muslim, an Arab with brown skin.

Is that a felony?

Aren’t we all— next of kin?

And this affects me — the preconceptions they have of me,

How they see and perceive me.

Then, 

I struggle to make up my mind,

With the haterd I'm faced with 

With how much doubt they have implied 

I really struggle to make up my mind,

Whether to keep on going,

or give up the fight.

It ain't wrong I was born Muslim,

It ain't a crime I was born who I am.

The war has never stopped — still inside all of us.

The borders are still closed, caving in on us.

The ones who said they’d help us are acting up,

Chasing fame instead of lifting us up.

Frauds, profiteers and liers everywhere! 

with selfish actions paving their paths all the way. 

But you are turning a blind eye, for your favorite amusement on display. 

For The clueless and envious patterns you could see from miles away

So, I close up my eyes, 

Trying not to see. 

Covering my ears, 

Because I don't want to hear. 

The stupid arguments and disputes

Over who cares the most

Who is going to be the best savior of us

Representing us, Recovering the loss! 

I close my eyes and dream, 

of a world yet to be forseen. 

For then, there's a free Filasteen,

A free Sudan, Congo, the far overseas, 

and nations in between? 

I pray for a world with life beyond the social media Obscene.

****

18:08-26.02.2025

Ahmed Sarsour