Zana’s Reviews > Every Moment Is a Life: Gaza in the Time of Genocide > Status Update

"As I was writing, the moon emerged from the clouds, pouring its splendor through the window. My eyes shone—how beautiful it is! In the pitch-black of night, the moon lit my heart, despite the sorrow. How can something so small and distant—so fleeting it feels like magic or delusion—illuminate my dark days?"

"Are memories of our departed loved ones more important than those still living?

Is there a way to earn money during a genocide without killing something inside us?"

"I had arranged my desk with care. My gaze lingered on my books—books I’d have to leave behind. I wondered if they would survive the obliteration crushing our flesh and our spirit."

'That day, I said aloud, “Is this what the occupation wants? For me to feel ‘at home’ merely in the memory of home?”

How can I feel at home without being there?

How can I be outside of my homeland when I’m in it?'

'Where did the word “coupon” even come from? I wondered. A new word had snuck into our lives and Gaza’s vocabulary. We all know it—it’s on the lips of young and old alike. I hear it dozens of times a day. It invaded us. Occupied us. It’s our first thought when we open our eyes in the morning and the last thing on our minds before we sleep.'

'“Beans and rice.”

I wasn’t fond of that dish, but it had become a staple in our bleak new reality. Little did we know that this dish would soon become a luxury, a nostalgic memory at a time when we would consume anything remotely edible.'

"After I said farewell to my wife and buried her with these two hands. . . .

I do not dare call her name now.

I’m afraid that if I call her name and she doesn’t answer, I will have to believe that she is truly gone.

Gone and left me."

*My heart used to pour words the moment I picked up a pen.

But today I am wordless, powerless to describe what I feel. What I endure.

This horror has drained us, exhausted us, ripped off our limbs and slit our throats from side to side.

I woke up, eyes half open, head buried in the pillow.

Another night of nightmares. Nothing new...."

'What do you do when you ask someone to respond to a query as soon as possible, only to receive a delayed reply:

“I buried my wife yesterday; please bear with me until the mourning period ends.”

Or:

“I’m ashamed to say . . . today we left everything behind and fled to the sea. We still haven’t found a place to spend the night. Give me just three days, please, I beg your patience.”'