Gaza Writes Back: Short Stories from Young Writers in Gaza, Palestine

by Refaat Alareer

Gaza taught us to fight oppression with what little we have, by any means necessary. Gaza taught us never to kneel, and not even to think of it.

It is also notable that the women portrayed in the stories are powerful, independent, intellectual, and proactive. Their role is no longer restricted to giving birth to freedom fighters; they are the freedom fighters.

The stories here promote remembering and condemn forgetting.

constant and debilitating structural violence of power cuts, isolation, unemployment, lack of basic goods, lack of books, lack of medicine and access to health care, extreme difficulty in traveling outside Gaza, and far too often pain, death, or the loss of loved ones.

This is not only an occupation, it's clearly genocide and ethnic cleansing.

Gaza writes back because storytelling helps construct Palestinian national identity and unity. Gaza writes back because there is a Palestine that needs to be rescued, at least textually for the time being. Gaza tells stories because Palestine is at a short story’s span. Gaza narrates so that people might not forget. Gaza writes back because the power of imagination is a creative way to construct a new reality. Gaza writes back because writing is a nationalist obligation, a duty to humanity, and a moral responsibility.

That an Israeli soldier could bulldoze 189 olive trees on the Land he claims is part of the “God-given Land” is something I will never comprehend. Did he not consider the possibility that God might get angry?

I remember that Palestine is bigger than Gaza. Palestine is the West Bank; Palestine is Ramallah; Palestine is Nablus; Palestine is Jenin; Palestine is Tulkarm; Palestine is Bethlehem; Palestine, most importantly, is Yafa and Haifa and Akka and all those cities that Israel wants us to forget about.

Regardless of the anguish, Laila tried to convince herself and her family that they were still “fortunate” compared to others. The family was lucky that the walls of their house were still standing, and they did not have to live in a tent and endure the brutality of winter’s cold and summer’s heat.

Seberapa banyak aku benci ini, mereka masih sempat "seenggaknya (blablabla) alhamdulillah" Ya Allah, iman mereka tuh 😭💔

“Next time, finish your job. When you bomb, bomb to end. And when you shoot, please shoot to kill.”

No words. Kata lain dari "Jangan siksa kami." Ternyata mereka pun mikir begini😔

it might take a little while longer than half a year before they could return to their homes, lands, farms, and olive trees. And it all ended there.

😭 sekarang udah 75th 😭😭

She put the book back in his little, cold hands, wishing he was able to finish the story. “Sleep tight, little b…little Peter Pan,” she murmured.

Buku Ways to Live Forever bikin aku merenung lama bgt krn ada settingnya rumah sakit dan tepatnya di ruang anak. And this?

The Old Man and the Stone by Refaat Alareer

Oke, aku nariknya.. The old man lahir di Al-Quds (Jerusalem). Beliau sangat mencintai tanah kelahirannya (ofc) tapi gak bisa tinggal di sana lagi. Jadi beliau cuma bisa membawa sesuatu dari tempat kelahirannya. Apa itu? Benda yang amat sangat sederhana, dan bahkan sangat sepele sehingga gak ada aturan untuk membawanya pergi (ada kisah seorang ibu yg dibilang melanggar aturan hanya karena menginap di tanah kelahirannya lebih lama). Dan beliau ingin membawanya sampai ke liang lahat 🥲 "Pastikan semua orang tahu tentang (batu) itu (yg dia bawa ke liang lahat)." seolah mengatakan: ini lho ada cerita aneh, konyol, tentang bapak tua sama sebuah batu. Kenapa dia begitu terobsesi? Semua orang akan cari tahu, dan semua akan tahu, kalo bapak tua ini sangat mencintai tanah kelahirannya yang direbut oleh penjajah 🥲 Refaat selalu menemukan cara untuk menyampaikan cerita. Simple dan terkesan konyol tapi artinya.. Wow 🥲

After the accident, I thought of a good explanation: I am the only survivor of my family; I wanted life to be only for me. I should spend the rest of my life trying to get rid of this trait.

I still remember when they put me in the ambulance without covering my face as they did with my family. I wished I could tell her I knew. But I kept silent.

“Things may sound peaceful if we do not think about them, but once we do, they evoke harsh memories in our minds.”

It was August and I wanted my body to melt over the breathing sand. Why did he let me go? Why did death not consider me a suspect and put me in jail?

I knew that she meant the soldiers she saw in the news and how they used their green uniform to hide among trees. I did not want my daughter to hate nature, yet she was stubborn and insisted her visions were true. “I saw trees killing; I am sure, Mom.”

I became awfully united with my shadow. My shadow grew sadder and taller than me. My shadow never disappears, even in the midst of radiant light.