Destroyed Farm, Gaza, 2024. Photo courtesy of Hasna Abumezied.
This is a kina, a poem fashioned in a style close to that of Eicha / The Book of Lamentations, the 5-chapter dirge of mourning for the destroyed Temple. This Tisha b’Av, for those whose hearts are in the East, it is impossible not to liken the scenes of devastation in Eicha to the scenes of destruction that emerged from Israel on October 7 last year and the scenes of chaos and utter devastation that have been steadily emerging from Gaza since. I have people in Israel; I once lived there. I also have a friend in Gaza, an English teacher; my partner and I have been corresponding with her all year. The words of this kina are taken from her texts to us, sent over the course of the last ten months, and shaped into a stanza structure that evokes the structure of the Eicha poem. Moving kinot have also been written this year by Israeli survivors of October 7.
Assembling this poem is all I can do right now to help my friend.
Adapted from the Correspondence of Educator Hasna Abumezied
Gaza Strip, October 2023 - August 2024
I don’t know what to say.
I have no words to describe how I feel.
So many people under rubble.
No words to describe.
No words to describe.
People running in the streets,
Lorries full of mattresses and blankets
with big white flags,
carts of people searching
for a place.
Many days without phone or internet.
You can imagine what happens
in our minds
during this time.
What will happen to my family, relatives, and me?
Where will we go
if ordered to leave?
I don’t understand what’s happening at all?
No words to describe.
My family and I
ran from my dear village,
in the streets
until we reached Rafah.
But I knew no one there.
I convinced my mother,
and we returned to our village;
It’s still dangerous but I’d rather
be home.
A week ago, an explosion
took a family near me:
A woman lay on the ground —
she had been pregnant;
her fetus lay
two meters away.
No words to describe.
My cousin in the North
sent a message:
They eat cow food.
In the South, they die from bombardment.
Today, I’m remembering my friend
- an English teacher, too -
killed in an airstrike
with her husband,
her in-laws,
and her eight children.
She loved shawarma. And weddings.
No words to describe.
Bombardments, artillery,
helicopters throwing smoke bombs,
loudspeakers shouting at
anything that walks.
You hear explosions,
see smoke and fire,
then try to sleep.
We always have a bag packed,
ready to leave.
One of my students
was killed with her family
at night, in their house,
by a bomb.
She was a clever, responsible girl.
Now, there is polio, hepatitis,
lung and skin disease.
Soap is expensive.
There is no medicine,
no ointments or creams.
Do you know that
I don’t feel time?
We spend the day
carrying buckets of water
when it’s available.
Oh, don’t let me start
about washing clothes.
I have great appreciation now
for the inventor
of the washing machine.
I used to be tired from working two jobs.
I would love to go back to that time
and never complain
about anything.
I miss my friends and colleagues.
I would love to take a simple shower.
I would really love to eat
a little chocolate or sweets.
No words to describe.
My uncle and his sons
farmed their whole lives
because they couldn’t get jobs.
Where they grew oranges
there is nothing now,
not even grass.
No trees, no barriers
to mark beginning or end.
My uncle went back to the land
and fell down — heart attack.
I visited him yesterday –
He kept crying,
and I cried as he spoke.
My mother is sick.
My sons do what they can:
They try to grow
basil and beans.
I don’t know what to say.
Al Zatoun and Al Shejaaia
forced to evacuate,
people running for the hundredth time
to escape.
People sleeping in the streets.
I couldn’t stop crying.
No place is safe.
No words to describe.
Today was a sad day.
Early morning, we bade farewell to my cousin,
killed by an airstrike.
His name is Hamza.
He is 14 years old.