By: Lubna Ahmad Abu Dahrouj
[Foreword: This piece comes to us through OGA Voices, an initiative that elevates the writing of oppressed, marginalized, and silenced communities around the world. Our mission is to platform these crucial perspectives exactly as the authors intend, with minimal editing, believing in the power of firsthand testimony to challenge narratives and foster global solidarity. We are honored to share Lubna’s unflinching words.]
I used to say that writing was my heaven, my refuge. I am a graduate of the English Department from Gaza, and I was a student of Dr. Refaat Alareer. May his soul rest in peace. He taught us that our stories are our weapons, that to write is to exist, to resist being erased. He once wrote, “If I must die, you must live to tell my story.”
I am trying to live, Doctor. But the story I must tell is one that has broken me.
Before October 2025, I was collecting my poems and stories for a zine. I had chosen a name for it: “The Right to Write”. It was a collection full of life, a testament to my people’s spirit. I write for the sake of my people, for the Palestinian people, for the people of Gaza.I never wanted fame. I want truth.
Now, the zine has a new name. It is dedicated to my little brother, Ameer, who was eight years old, and to my dear mother. They were killed by the Israeli occupation while they were sleepinglast month, October 2025, five days apart from one another.
I open my eyes, and I am under the rubble. The world has collapsed. I smell the most disgusting chemical weapons. I hear my mother shouting. And I see my young brother, Ameer, killed. This is not a memory; it is a presence. I smell death in every breath I hold. Gaza smells of death.
Ameer was not a number. He was incredibly intelligent, sensitive, and loving in a way I have never seen in any child. Although he was only eight, when he saw me cleaning or holding something heavy, he would rush to me. “Lubna, I want to help you,” he would say. “Don’t hold this, it’s too heavy. I can hold it myself.” And he would try, his small hands gripping what was far too weighty for him. He was my heart. He was my all.
My mother was my map. She was my best friend, my go-to person for every single decision in my life. I would run to her for everything. She was my whole life. To have her physically torn from this world is a pain for which there is no word. I am more than sad. I am a universe of grief.
I am not the old Lubna anymore. The one who was positive, who loved life, who applied for scholarships. Now, everything feels rotten. I am injured, my legs and eyes affected by the rubble collapse. But the physical pain is nothing. The real injury is the emptiness.
I write, and I write, and I write. My poems have been published in places like We Are Not Numbers (WANN), Baladi Magazine, Angel Food Magazine, Olive Tree Collective, and in a Swindon book also. I was also proud to contribute to Refaat Writes Back newsletter, a publication continuing his legacy. Some of my work, which had been published online, has been lost, but I still have it all in screenshots. I will not be erased.
But now, the words are harder to find. How do you translate this pain? This loss? I am in a state of denial. I hate using the past tense for Ameer and my mother. They are never “was”. They live in my brain, in my heart, in my thinking, in every single breath.
So why do I keep trying to write?
Because Dr. Refaat was right. If they must die, I must live to tell their story. My writing is no longer just a refuge; it is a duty, an act of love. It is the only way I can make Ameer and my mother live through words.My new zine, dedicated to them, is my promise. I will write for them. I will write for my people.
I am just one example of the many in Gaza who have had our hearts shattered, our families torn apart, our futures stolen. We are forced to live a life of unspeakable horror, designed to break us.
But they have not broken my pen.
I write for Ameer, who tried to carry my heavy burdens.
I write for my mother, who was my rock.
I write for Dr. Refaat, who taught me why it matters.
And I write for Gaza, which still, despite everything, demands to be heard.
Lubna Ahmad Abu Dahrouj is a Palestinian writer and poet from Gaza. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including We Are Not Numbers, Baladi Magazine, Angel Food Magazine, Benedi Magazine, Olive Tree Collective, and the Refaat Writes Back newsletter. She is currently compiling a zine dedicated to the memory of her brother and mother.
How to Support Lubna and Gaza’s Writers
Lubna’s story is one of countless others. To support her and other writers in Gaza, you can:
- Read and Share Their Work: Amplify their voices by reading their articles, poems, and testimonies, and sharing them within your networks. Visibility is a form of protection and solidarity.
- Engage Professionally: Follow and connect with Lubna on her LinkedIn profileor Instagram to support her professional journey and access to opportunities.
- Support Mental Health and Livelihood: The trauma is immense. Supporting organizations that provide mental health services to Palestinians and initiatives that help writers and journalists continue their work under siege is crucial.
- Advocate for a Ceasefire and Humanitarian Aid: Use your voice to call for an endto the violence and the unrestricted entry of humanitarian aid, including food, water, medical supplies, and building materials. A safe environment is the most fundamental support.
NOTE: Little Ameer Abu Dahrouj’s sister and our author, Lubna, has graciously shared this beautiful photo of him, requesting it to be used to illustrate this post. The image stands as a powerful tribute to his joy and accomplishment, preserving the cherished memory of his short life. Rest in power, dear Ameer. ❤️
