No caption needed as this poem talks about a lot of what we see every single day in our lives.

Many entities try to put the Palestinians of Gaza, wherever they are, down, and they keep rising.

A crisis after another hits Gaza and its people! Corona Virus hit the strip yesterday and the number of cases is getting higher and higher.

This poem is about a girl who graduated from high school this year and she lost her dad before graduation

This poem is dedicated to the refugees of Palestine, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan and many other war-torn countries, who are still looking for a home.

I fell in love with a girl whose name is the name of the most beautiful shrub that has white flowers with a yummy smell. This poem is dedicated to her.

My grandfather was not a refugee like the 1.3 million Palestinian refugees living in Gaza, which is home to a population of approximately 2 million people. He was a farmer, who worked in cities like Haifa and Aka before inheriting his own farm in Gaza from his parents. Aaccording to him, not being able to go back to work in Haifa and Aka like before, however, made him feel like he was a refugee. This turned him into a completely different person. He fell in love with his farm in Gaza and used to spend more than 50 hours per week on that piece of green land.

It was his refuge for most his life. He made his Arabic salad there, using the tomatoes, onions, and peppers he planted. Green and sour grapes were an option when he didn’t have salt. The olive oil gave his salad a unique taste that I can’t describe in words. My father begged him not to drink the unfiltered water at the farm, but he couldn't be convinced, as he loved everything that came from his land. He once described his farm’s unfiltered water as real and  the filtered as fake.

The shade from the high olive trees that had been planted on his farm hundreds of years ago was his cover from the sun in the summer, and their dark green leaves were an umbrella for him in the winter. Citruses were his fruits, and the huge, local eggplant and cucumber were his vegetables.

I once questioned how he had shaved his beard before his death. I found out later that he had his own, little place for shaving on his farm. He hid a blade, a piece of soap, and a broken mirror behind a rock beside the farm's back fence.

The tough man with green eyes and gray hair, who walked an hour to his farm with a walking stick every day at dawn, was my grandfather. I guarantee he loved his farm more than anything else—not because it’s where he spent his time, but because land means life.

I am not exaggerating when I say that he died from sorrow over the 2012-2013 bombing of his Gaza farm.

I wrote this poem to mourn the death of my grandmother who we painfully lost her on May 7th, 2020

A poem dedicated to my mom

Refugees problem is getting worse, even amid the current pandemic! Everyone of them has a story to tell, whether a story about losing a child, being forced to leave a house or even leaving the whole country without any hops of coming back. This poem talks about one of these stories many of refugees suffer from.

Peace means Salam in Arabic. This poem is for those who have been talking about Salam and never made it happen.

Every new day comes while we are still quarantined at our houses and away from our friends and beloved ones, the Coronavirus shocks us with new surprises. Today, it inspired me to write this poem.

I have been waiting to visit the cherry blossoms in Washington DC since last year. The time comes now but sadly, it’s different and the scene is really sad. This inspired me to write this poem.

I lived in Gaza most of my life, where I witnessed a siege by Israeli occupation. Now I moved to the US, things here look like having a siege, not by humans but by a virus.

Coronavirus became a nightmare to many people. In this peom, I describe how most of people feel when they hear about this virus. I pray for healthy lives to those infected.

Many babies don't expect to come to this life to start it in war, but they do.

In loving memory of my grandfather.

When things get complicated with us, we talk to ourselves trying to make God hear us as much as we can, so we, submissively, kneel to him asking him to be with us.

No matter the degree of happiness we reach, homeless kids should be remembered.

Melancholic Fall

Gaza people love life, and after all they are humans.

Sometimes the only thing you can do for your people suffering every day is writing a poem.

While you are in your bed covered with blankets and love, don't forget that there are thousands who aren't.

Palestine

When I see and feel how unfair life is for those people who have no voice or strength to speak up, I can do nothing about it but to let my pen be my fighter and theirs.

I wrote this poem to reflect on how I feel towards not being able to speak up for the rights of my people

When streets in Palestinian refugees camps around Palestine are filled with loud voices in recent days, it's not celebration but protests, bearing the message "Enough, we want dignity".

Today marks the 24th anniversary of the massacre of the Bosnian town of Srebrenica.

Since Jerusalem is being left alone, I am writing this poem to remember it in my days, nights, dreams, and nightmares.

This poem is about the people of Gaza who have been under attacks since days.

This poem is dedicated to my beloved city of Jerusalem.