We wait—
not because we expect peace,
but because the bombing leaves us no other choice.
We wait like one who hides a wound beneath the mud,
Like one who buries their cry beneath an absent loaf of bread.
A ceasefire?
Just a word they promise
we hang on the walls
next to pictures of the martyrs.
We wait…
but we don’t know exactly what we wait for:
a ceasefire?
a loaf?
a breath without planes overhead?
The night has grown longer than our lives,
and the heat melts what remains of our bodies,
and hunger is smarter than patience—
it knows when to bite, and when to mock.
We lie when we are hungry,
telling the children, “Tomorrow we will eat,”
as if promises were food,
as if hope alone could fill empty stomachs.
We silence our voices
not out of love for patience,
but because the planes panic
when they hear life moving.
Even the darkness
no longer frightens,
but becomes a refuge
for those who have no roof to block the light.
Despite all unseen wounds,
the city walks on the fire of waiting,
it does not collapse,
but fashions from patience a weapon,
and from pain, an endless poem,
crying silently,
with eyes that never sleep,
waiting… resisting,
because staying here
is the purest act of resistance.
Shoug Basem Mukhaimar
Shoug Basem Mukhaimar, 22, is a writer and poet from Gaza and a student of English Literature at Al-Aqsa University. Through her writing, she gives voice to her people’s struggles and stories, ensuring they are never forgotten. Her work has appeared in We Are Not Numbers and Al Jazeera English.
Ahmed Header Ashour
Ahmed Header Ashour, a 23-year-old artist from Gaza, graduated last year with a degree in pharmacy. Art has always been my way of expressing what I carry inside. I chose to focus my drawings on the Palestinian cause to capture and convey the pain of our people—through war, hunger, death, and displacement. ” His artwork titled, “The Last Farewell” is the featured artwork for Shoug’s poem.
