CZM Book Club: Two Stories from Gaza Writes Back, edited by Refaat Alareer

Summary

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It Could Happen Here:

CZM Book Club — Two Stories from Gaza Writes Back, Edited by Refaat Alareer

• Podcast: It Could Happen Here (Cool Zone Media, iHeartPodcasts)
• Host: Margaret Killjoy
• Air Date: June 28, 2026

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Overview

This powerful installment of the Cool Zone Media Book Club highlights “Gaza Writes Back,” a collection of short stories written by young Gazan authors—primarily women—who came of age during times of immense violence and occupation. Edited by the late Refaat Alareer, these stories are acts of both resistance and remembrance, told in English to preserve an unmediated Palestinian youth narrative. The episode features dramatic readings of two stories—“The Story of the Land” by Sarah Ali and “L for Life” by Hanan Habashi—followed by a moving poem, “If I Must Die,” by Alareer himself. Host Margaret Killjoy and Hazel, a behind-the-scenes producer, share their own emotional responses and reflections throughout.

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Key Discussion Points and Story Summaries

Introduction to the Book and Editor

[02:21]

• “Gaza Writes Back” features short fiction by young Gazans, many first-time writers, most of whom are women.
• Written in English for creative writing classes at the Islamic University of Gaza.
• Editor Refaat Alareer, killed by the Israeli military in December 2023, is memorialized.
• The writing is rooted in the trauma and resistance of life under occupation.

Notable Quote

“Telling stories is an act of life, that telling stories is resistance, and that telling stories shapes our memories.”
—Refaat Alareer (quoted by Margaret Killjoy, [04:01])

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Story 1: The Story of the Land — by Sarah Ali

[04:20–18:32]

Summary

Sarah Ali shares a deeply personal narrative about generational connection to land, grief, and endurance in the face of destruction. The story centers on her father’s reaction to the loss of their family’s olive trees—189 uprooted by Israeli military action. The destruction is not only a loss of livelihood but an assault on intergenerational identity and pride. When an aid program offers seeds and tools, not cash, it provides a rare moment of restoration and dignity.

Key Discussion Points

• The significance of olive trees and land as symbols of Palestinian identity.
• Interplay of memory, trauma, and hope across generations.
• The subtle difference between external help that preserves dignity and that which reduces pride to charity.
• How public and private grief is transformed by the magnitude of collective tragedy.

Notable Quotes

“189 olive trees. Not 180, not 181, not even 188. 189 olive trees.”
—Sarah’s father (read by Margaret Killjoy, [15:45])

“By uprooting plants and cutting trees continually, Israel tries to break that bond and impose its own rules of despair on Palestinians. By replanting their trees over and over again, Palestinians are rejecting Israel's rules. My land, my rules, says dad.”
—Sarah Ali (read by Margaret Killjoy, [17:25])

“This is the power of story and memoir… You read about trees destroyed, even numbers of trees destroyed, and it’s not quite—this is what happened to my father when 189 olive trees were destroyed on his land.”
—Margaret Killjoy ([18:28])

Reflections

• Margaret discusses the difference between statistics in the news and the personal, embodied pain revealed in memoir.
• She likens the “divinity of land” in the story to the loss and replacement of the natural world in her own surroundings.

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Story 2: L for Life — by Hanan Habashi

[21:28–39:26]

Summary

This epistolary story takes the form of a daughter's letter to her deceased father, “Baba.” Through memories, longing, and conversation with her grieving grandfather and mother, the narrator seeks resolution to an unfinished bedtime story about a boy named Thayer. The trauma of occupation, the legacy of familial storytelling, and the search for closure intertwine as she visits a family friend, Auntie Karama, to finally learn Thayer’s fate. The motif of the olive tree once again appears, surviving amid ruin as a symbol of hope and resistance.

Key Discussion Points

• Intergenerational dialogue amid loss and suppressed grief.
• The symbolic function of stories: finishing a bedtime story as a metaphor for healing trauma.
• The persistence of memory and connection through everyday routines and shared narratives.
• The role of women as bearers and transmitters of resilience.

Notable Quotes

“Such an eyesore. Other times I would gaze at it, trying to recall how that soldier might look… always ended up believing he is no more than a faceless monster.”
—Hanan Habashi (read by Margaret Killjoy, [22:00])

“Mum has become cynical, unfortunately, but she gained a lot of wisdom nonetheless. Believing that her answer had nothing to do with your Thayer, I asked her again… He got back home. Indeed, we all will, she whispered under her breath.”
—Mother to narrator (read by Margaret, [27:37])

“You had always believed in its bigness. P for passion. A for aspiration. L for life. E for existence. S for sanity. T for trust. I for you. N for nation. E for exaltation. And then you wrote it just right.”
—Auntie Karama (read by Margaret, [38:24])

Memorable Moment

• The journey with Auntie Karama through the rubble of a burned house, culminating in the silent witness of a single living olive tree at its threshold—a living answer to the search for hope and meaning ([38:45]).

Reflections

• Margaret speaks on personal resonance, connecting the motif of speaking to the dead to her own family history.
• Hazel’s contribution (as read by Margaret) focuses on grief as a path to deeper connection, inviting listeners to “turn toward the rending” rather than away from it ([44:51]).
• Discussion on the power and universality of storytelling and the value of ordinary, imperfect people and moments.

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Poem: If I Must Die — by Refaat Alareer

[46:06–48:58]

• The poem is introduced with context about Alareer’s life and death, highlighting him as a key intellectual voice deliberately targeted during the ongoing genocide in Gaza.
• “If I Must Die” becomes a “message to the living”—a plea to keep memory alive, to transform death into hope, to turn storytelling into resistance.

Poem Excerpt

“If I must die, you must live
to tell my story, to sell my things, to buy a piece of cloth and some strings,
make it white with a long tail
so that a child somewhere in Gaza will
looking heaven in the eye...
Sees the kite, my kite, you made flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love.
If I must die, let it bring hope, let it be a tale...”

Impact Statement

• The poem, written originally for Alareer’s daughter, has been translated into over 200 languages—a testament to the power and reach of Gazan stories.

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Closing Thoughts & Author Bios

[49:30–52:58]

• Margaret and Hazel highlight the importance of reading these stories to the audience, connecting the pain of distant places to their own experiences of grief, gratitude, and resistance.
• Short bios and avenues for following the featured writers:
  • Sarah Ali: Palestinian teacher, Cambridge PhD, blogs at sarahlI.wordpress.com ([50:35])
  • Hanan Habashi: Educator, shares writing on Instagram @hananrights
  • Anthology available from PM Press; support groups like the Samir Foundation at samirfoundation.org

Notable Quote

“We’re all we’ve got. We’re all we need. It could happen.”
—Margaret Killjoy ([52:58])

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Timestamps at a Glance

• [02:21] — Show and book introduction
• [04:20–18:32] — "The Story of the Land" by Sarah Ali
• [21:28–39:26] — "L for Life" by Hanan Habashi
• [46:06–48:58] — Poem: "If I Must Die" by Refaat Alareer
• [49:30–52:58] — Reflections, author bios, donation links, closing remarks

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Tone & Language

• Margaret maintains a compassionate, earnest, and humble tone.
• The language is evocative, unflinching, and grounded in lived reality, as are the original works.
• No snarky ad transitions in respect of the material’s seriousness.

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Summary

This episode offers a searing, empathetic experience of Palestinian life under siege—centering especially on the ordinary and the familial. Through story, poem, and reflection, listeners are guided past statistics and headlines to encounter the sacredness of olive trees, the nuance of inherited trauma, and the enduring hope that storytelling sparks. Margaret and Hazel invite listeners to share in grief so as not to become numb, and to recognize our global, interconnected humanity through the lives, memories, and resistance of Gazans.

Transcript

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[Margaret Killjoy]

Cool Zone Media Book Club. Book Club. Book Club. Book club. Hello and welcome to the Cool Zone Media Book Club. The only book club where you, the listener thinks. How long will Margaret keep that bit up about the chanting? Now that there's usually not guests, I am your host, Margaret Killjoy. The Cool Zone Media Book Club is the only book club where you don't have to do the reading. Because I do it for you. And today we have two stories and a poem for you from the collection. Gaza writes short stories from young writers in Gaza, Palestine and this anthology was edited by Refaat Alarir for its first release from Just World Books in 2014. But Refaat was martyred by the Israeli military in December of 2023 and a new memorial edition is currently available from PM Press. Hazel, who helps with the show, says that they found this book last year and immediately knew they wanted to do some stories from it and we're so happy to be able to present works from it today with the cooperation of the authors with PM Press who put out that new edition, and the family of Rafaad Alarir. This collection is full of short stories written by young people, most women who came of age during Operation Cast Lead. This was, in Refaat's words, from the original introduction, the full scale military offensive that Israel launched on Gaza between December 27, 2008 and January 18, 2009. Most of the stories in Gaza, Writes Back, were originally written for Refaat's fiction and creative writing classes at the Islamic University in Gaza. Many of the authors were new to writing fiction and or writing at all, though some were experienced bloggers documenting their experience of life under occupation. Almost all of the stories were composed originally in English and again in Refaat's words. The stories included here present in English a much needed Palestinian youth narrative without the mediation or influences of translation or of non Palestinian voices. Gaza Writes Back, provides conclusive evidence that telling stories is an act of life, that telling stories is resistance, and that telling stories shapes our memories. So to get us started, our first story is called the Story of the Land by Sarah Ali To Dad I looked at his teary eyes and beholding something akin to happiness, I smiled. The man I have always known to be my father was back. He did not look like that unfamiliar man whom I could not fully recognize during the last three years. He was no longer that absent minded silent figure gazing at walls all the time and uninterestingly nodding whenever addressed by anyone at home. He was there, he was present. He was actually listening. As I went on bragging about a high grade of mine. A phone call and a piece of paper signed by some Turkish sponsored institution brought back my father. I looked at his eyes again, this time more carefully for fear that my first glance was false. As I saw that absolute happiness in my father's eyes, a big smile made it to my face again. As we now commemorate the Land Day, we honor the people who stood up for their land in 1976 when Israel announced thousands of Palestinian dunams would be confiscated during marches held to protest that declaration, six people were killed. 30 March brings back a memory of our land, my father's land. A couple weeks ago, we got a phone call informing us that my father's name had been selected for a reconstruction program funded by Turkey. The program aims at helping Gazan farmers, whose lands were damaged during the Israeli offensive in 2008, replant their trees. It provides farmers with all types of facilitating materials, such as fences, tree cuttings, seedlings, seeds, and irrigation systems. My father declined to apply for those organizations that gave financial compensations to farmers. How can he take money in return for land? Unlike any other aid program, this program gives no money to farmers. It instead helps them stand on their own. Though my father was born to a family of farmers, he did not follow that path. He studied economics and political science in Egypt and spent most of his youth working as a journalist, but mainly a columnist, writing about economic and political issues in newspapers in Kuwait. When he was back in Gaza, though, he had to take care of the piece of land my grandfather left for him years before, it was not difficult for him. Gradually, the land became more of a passion than a profession. It was one of the few things he cared about, the daily thing that kept him busy. It was heaven on earth. During those 23 days of the Israeli attack on Gaza, we were constantly receiving news of land being run over by Israeli bulldozers. We were told thousands of trees were gone. We were told my uncle's trees were gone. We were told our trees were gone. We were told Sharga, the whole district of eastern farmland, was gone. But these were rumors, or so my father wanted to believe. We all had hope that our land was still intact, totally untouched. We were clinging to the assumption that only other people's trees could get uprooted. But certainly not our beautiful, unmatched olives. Certainly not the trees that were, to my father, the only thing he boasted of to prove he was no less of a Gazan than those who repeatedly reproached him for, as they put it, recklessly leaving the land of black gold, where they assumed he swam in Kuwaiti oil pools every day. And for coming to live here with a small H, my father looked at it quite differently. For here, with a capital H, he always believed, is the land of Al Zayt, al Muqarras, the holy oil. Gaza's sky was blue again. Things were over. The news said things were over. My father went there. He went to check up on the land with a capital H. He put his faith in his olives being an exception, and he went there. He put his faith in that little white spot in the heart of the bulldozer's operator, who my father supposed could not have resisted the beauty of our land and who listened to his innate good being that told him not to run over this land. He had faith in the goodness of man, and he went there. He put his faith in God, and he went there. My brother, who accompanied him, told us later that all they saw as they walked was ruined lands filled with bulldozed dead trees, which seemed to suffice for their family's need of firewood for years to come. My brother said dad started crying as he saw people crying. They went on. They saw more toppled trees, feeble and defeated. They went on. There was the heaven. The scene of our land was not shocking. Simply put, our trees were no exception. Our trees were gone. A miscellany of affliction and denial took over the place. My father's faith, I could tell, was smashed into little pieces. The world seemed like an ugly place. One of our trees, which later became the subject matter the whole neighborhood spoke of, was still standing there. Just one week before the attacks, my father told my brother how slanted this tree was and how quickly they needed to get rid of it. They were planning to cut it, and yet, ironically, it was the only tree the Israeli army left. Out of boredom or mercy, I cannot tell. But it was still there. Later, whenever my cousins wanted to make dad feel less terrible about it, they made fun of the whole thing. How the hell did the soldiers know you were planning to cut it anyway and so decided not to cut it themselves? My cousins would remark. Everyone would start laughing, but dad did not. His land and olive groves were not laughing matters to him. When my father and brother were home that day, my brother started telling us about what he saw. He told us that the trees were uprooted. Al shajar Jajaraf, he kept repeating. My father was in his room crying. During the weeks that followed my father's visit to the land, he had a daily schedule. In the morning he prayed and read Quran. At night, he cried, speaking about the land, the houses, and generally the financial losses during or right after the Israeli offensive would have sounded very selfish and indifferent to others. When people are dying, you do not speak of your beautiful house that was leveled to the ground. When people are losing their legs and arms, leaving them disabled for the rest of their lives, you do not speak of your fancy car that once looked like a vase adorning the streets of your modest neighborhood, and that is now a gray wreck. When a mother is burying her child before she could say goodbye, you do not speak of your land and your trees that were mercilessly uprooted. Those people speak, they cry, they mourn, you listen. And for the memory of your insignificant little misery, you grieve in silence. And that seemed to have amassed more agony over Dad's pain. Recently I went to father to get accurate information about the trees that were uprooted. Their numbers and their age. Why are you asking? Are you applying for one of those charity institutions that offer some money and a bag of flour instead of helping people plant the trees again? Are you? We do not need those. The guy I met from the reconstruction program called last week and they already sent laborers and farmers to start their job. Do you still want to apply for charity? No, Baba. I am just writing something for my blog. Blog. Okay, whatever that is. So how many trees were uprooted? 180 olive trees, I guess. And 189 olive trees. 160 lemon trees, 14 guava trees. He bellowed, angry that I missed the exact number. Embarrassed, I lowered my head and wondered why I was doing this to myself. My thoughts were interrupted when he went on. Next time you decide to do whatever it is you want to do right now, get your numbers straight. I made no reply. You hear me? There were 189 olive trees. Not 180, not 181, not even 188. 189 olive trees. He left the room for a few minutes afterwards. Guilt was all I could feel. 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? Did he not realize that it was a tree he was running over? If a Palestinian bulldozer were ever invented? Ha ha, I know and I were given the chance to be in an orchard in Haifa, for instance. I would never uproot a tree an Israeli planted. No Palestinian would. To Palestinians, the tree is sacred and so is the land bearing it. And as I talk about Gaza, I remember that Gaza is but a little part of Palestine. I remember that Palestine is bigger than Gaza. Palestine is the West Bank. Palestine is Ramallah. Palestine is Nablus. Palestine is Jenin. Palestine is Tokarm. Palestine is Bethlehem. Palestine, most importantly, is Jaffa and Hafa and Akka and all those cities that Israel wants us to forget about. Today I came to realize that it was not the phone call that brought my father back. Nor was it the paper signed by the aid institution. It was the memory of the land being revived that brought him back. It was the memory of olive trees giving that sense of security each time he sat under them, enjoying their shade and dodging the burning rays of the sun. It was the memory of the golden oil, the best and purest oil, being poured into jerry cans and handed to family and friends as precious gifts. It was the memory of long years of cherishing the land, years of giving. Belonging between my father and his land is an unbreakable bond. Between Palestinians and their land is an unbreakable bond. By uprooting plants and cutting trees continually, Israel tries to break that bond and impose its own rules of despair on Palestinians. By replanting their trees over and over again, Palestinians are rejecting Israel's rules. My land, my rules, says dad. Yeah, that's the story. Sarah, who wrote this story, says this about. I originally wrote this story when I was a teenager and later revisited and rewrote it for Gaza. Writes back. Looking back, I can see that it is quite raw, immature, and reflects the inexperience of a young writer. At times it even feels a little corny to me now. Nevertheless, it remains very special to me because it is rooted in a real experience connected to my father's land, which was repeatedly destroyed by Israeli occupation forces. That personal history is at the heart of the story and continues to give it a meaning to me. And what do I have to say about this story? I mean, I think the story speaks for itself in so many ways. And I think that this is the power of story and memoir is to take something that is a, a news article, even to a well meaning, free Palestine, anti Zionist person. In the west. You read about trees destroyed, even numbers of trees destroyed, which is so important in this story. And it's not quite. This is what happened to my father when 189 olive trees were destroyed on his land. And the other thing that sticks to me, okay, there's this drive I go on sometimes through Appalachia and there's this big billboard and it's the middle of the forest. You know, the highway's cutting through the forest and the billboard, there's a bunch of trees that were cut down on a hill to make room for this billboard and it says there is evidence for God. And all I can think is like, yeah, and you cut it down to put up that billboard, you know, because the holiness and the divinity of land itself is so self evident. I like the way that this story carries that idea. And usually I do snarky ad transitions and I don't know, I don't feel like it. Here's ads they allow us to have this show, I guess.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

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And we're back. So Refaat Alarir, who's the editor of that book that we're going to be continuing to talk about, quotes Samiya Owan in his introduction to the book, Quote There was too much pain in those 23 days, and some of us who wrote about cast lead did so to heal some of the pain caused by the horrendous memories. And no matter how beautiful the spirit of resistance that overwhelmed us, this beauty should never override the ugliness of pure injustice. Our second story is called L for Life by Hanan Habashi how are you Baba? It's been ages since I last sat and talked to you. I nearly forgot about my promise to write to you whenever happiness sneaks into my little heart. I'm afraid a letter filled with happiness risks never being written. So let me write to you without conditions. Don't deprive me of the sense of satisfaction I used to get when addressing you. Today marks 11 years since the day you were gone, but only now am I starting to realize how dearly I miss you, how your loss is too awful a beast to conquer. You know you are sorely needed. My only solace is that I know you feel my thoughts. Life has become more painfully complex than getting a good grade in history or going out with Auntie Karama's family. Life is never that simple. What to tell you Gaza is frustrating these days. Well, these years it's a good exercise in patience at least. This summer is the worst of all. Summers that passed without you. Breathing some good air has become a luxury we cannot always afford. When nothingness takes over, which happens quite too often, I sit in my room, which is fully exposed to the sun, gazing at the tiny mark of the gunshot and the ugly crack it left there. Yes, that very same crack on the wall caused by his rifle. Such an eyesore. Other times I would gaze at it, trying to recall recall how that soldier might look like that huge creature grabbed you out of my bed and didn't give you a chance to finish my bedtime story. I cannot remember anything but his dusty black boots and the frightening rifle. So many times I tried to imagine how he would look like and always ended up believing he is no more than a faceless monster. Maybe I have gone too far, thinking of him, of his life, of his family, of his wife whom he loves, of his smart kid who can get a good grade in math, of him laughing and crying, Baba, what would make this kind of human rejoice over the fact that I am living the agony of being fatherless with an uncompleted story? It is when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to look past all those electricity free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gazan night, feel the fresh air going straight to my heart and think of you, of me, of Palestine, of the crack of the blank wall, of you, of Mama, of you, of my history class, of you, of God, of Palestine, of our incomplete story. I enjoy bringing to my mind your tender voice narrating the story of Thayer. I still remember how I cheerfully beamed when you told me that Thayer and I are so much alike, that he has my wild eyes and and I his sheepish smile. I have not yet known who he is or where in life he stands, but I believe I had always trusted your heroes. I can never forget how your dazzling eyes had brightened when you recalled him planting some olive seedlings in the backyard of the orphanage. God bless the smile on your face. God bless the seeds under the ground. I can never forget how you looked me in the eyes and said, he is a boy who lost his whole family to death but never lost faith in life. I want you to be as strong, Baba. Do you remember when I asked you if he was strong enough to wrestle an Israeli soldier? You grinned. You always did. But you didn't answer me. You wanted me to figure things out on my own. You told me he was only 12 years old when one of the orphanage girls, Amo, started trembling, hallucinating and sweating. But nobody there had the guts to break the military curfew to die. Thayer, however, did go out to bring a doctor for Amal. And then. And then. Hell on earth, Baba. And then you are no more. I don't remember when exactly I started to care about completing Thayer's story. But whenever I ventured to think of giving it a proper ending, I would get tired and the weight in my head would grow heavier. I could not do it on my own. I thought I had to think twice. Once for me and once for you. I have tried my best, Baba. Doing so is not easy. Nonetheless, of all the people around me, you know best that it takes two to complete a story. It always does. I hated the fact that I might have been driven by curiosity and the sheer love of ending. The air is Another you in my life. Just like your photo that stands above the repugnant crack and your keffiyeh, whose rich black was worn out to a glorious gray. They are all living parts of you. I had to believe that it is the fear of losing yet more of my father that pushed me there. I thought once I thought of your soulmate Mama. I thought you must have talked to her about Thayer. I imagined you both had spent nights admiring his eyes and smile, for I can clearly remember when you got together, which was some kind of a luxury for Mama. Talks between you did not end. I sometimes travel to specific memories. I hear the timbre of your voice and the echo of Mama's laughter, laughter which died long ago. But don't you worry, Mama never fails to smile. I know I shouldn't bother you, Baba, but you've got to know that every passing day Mama is getting frailer. I always wonder, what does she know which I don't? Which makes her go on in a life of bitter loneliness. She must know much, right? Thinking that she knew Thayer, I once plainly asked her, what happened to Thayer in the end, she washed the last dish, turned the tap off, and started at the sink. For some time I felt like she was about to give me the healing answer, but she at once retracted. Who's Thayer? She asked, narrowing her eyes. Thayer, I answered. Then, seeing uneasiness drawn on her face, I repeated, thayer. My father's Thayer. In every move she made and every word she didn't say, I could see the glint of a story in the distance. She used her silence to shield the chaos I spotted in her eyes. Mama? Thayer. The strong kid who planted olive trees at the orphanage. I went on, trying to get her to talk. Strong, huh? Doesn't matter how strong you are or pretend to be. Life is going to get to you sometimes. And that doesn't make you weak, sweetheart. It makes you human. I know, Baba. You don't know this new woman. I don't either. I like to call it wisdom. Mom has become cynical, unfortunately, but she gained a lot of wisdom nonetheless. Believing that her answer had nothing to do with yor Thayer, I asked her again if she knew what happened to him and whether he got back to the orphanage or not. He got back home. Indeed, we all will, she whispered under her breath. I spent that night thinking of Thayer's home, of the distant life in Mama's eyes. I kept wondering what's more torturous, the awful buzz of the drone outside or the sounds of some tough questions inside? I guess I eventually slept with no answer. Thanking the drone for not giving my inner uproar any chance to abate. Here's where I have to do an ad break. And again, just not feeling the. Well, imagine your own snarky ad break.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

So good.

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I got it.

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No, I got it. Seriously, I. I assisted first. Oh, don't be silly. You don't be silly.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

And we're back. Two weeks ago, Grandfather went out with Abu Faras, a neighbor, to get the UNRWA food coupons. He left home sane and returned crazy. That simple. Abu Faras' grandpa waited three solid hours under the burning sun in the long queue. When he was finally about to get the coupon, he asked the man there, what are you offering me? His answer was simple food. And when exactly am I going to get my Jaffa with this coupon? Grandpa cried out. You can imagine what kind of hullabaloo took place. But everything calmed down when Abu Faras forced him back home. I don't like to think much of the incident. I know that ever since you've been gone, his life is entirely devoted to the grief over a lemon tree and a dear son. Now he is no longer the man I would talk to for hours. He doesn't believe anymore, doesn't believe in me. He says people fight and die to regain our Palestine, but those freedom fighters don't come back, nor does Palestine. He swears you are now in Jaffa, sitting by a lemon tree, enjoying the sun disappearing into the blue of our marvelous sea. Grandfather says you would never come back, for who on earth would leave the paradise of Jaffa? I am day after day, falling in love with the years that dwell in his wrinkled face and the memories of old days which are the beats of his weak heart. You have to expect that I ask Grandfather about Thayer. He immediately replied. Thayer refused to share a breath with this dirty world. He chose to grow up somewhere else. Don't give me that ridiculous face. Yes, dead people do grow up. But don't you ever believe that they grow older? This answer was even more confusing than Mama's. I don't believe you. Thayer could never have considered death as an option. And what about a mall? Was he selfish enough to leave her to die? I cried. Who is Amal? Grandpa asked with no sense of concern. For some reason, I felt relieved. I smiled and answered, my grown up friend, you should meet her sometime. I told him I intended to visit Auntie Karama the next day and asked if he would like to come. He said he could no longer tolerate children and full houses. I couldn't care less. I kissed his forehead. It smelled like the fragrance of lemon blossoms. I felt like he had planted a lemon orchard in his cavernous wrinkles. Baba. How could he dare say Thayer was dead? He himself couldn't believe it. I celebrated every new moment added to Thayer's life. I had to be thankful for my faith. For you have to make that leap of faith if you ever want to heal. Years may be the length of one's life, but faith is undoubtedly the width. The next day, I woke up really early. I, for my very first time, watched the sun rise. With the dimmed light around me, the world looked just like how I felt. And that was when I looked deep, deep down and started to break apart. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn't stop. I started to wonder if the things I am living for are worth dying for. I started to think of everything I had in life. Although I have lots of things, they never seem to be necessary. Every time I think I had it the way I really fancy, it twists and turns and slips away. I didn't feel your soul around. Though I tried to dream you closer, it stayed away, just like before. I knew it was about Thayer. I was afraid that I would fall asleep again, knowing that he'll always be the story with no ending. I knew that you were just a story away. A story away. Because I could no longer wait to know what happened to Thayer. I spared the sun two hours to take its favorite place in that awe inspiring sky. The weather had not yet decided its attitude. The cool air was deceiving. So I put your glorious keffiyeh around my neck and I unwaveringly went out. I trusted life that day. Grandfather might think that's naive, but you wouldn't. I believe life is one of the few that is trustworthy. They say to find something, anything, a great truth or a lost pair of glasses, you must first believe there will be some advantage in finding it. And what an advantage. Baba. When I finally reached Auntie Karama's house, I knocked on the door impatiently. I waited more than 10 minutes outside. Nobody answered my continuous knocks. I was about to return home when Auntie opened the door. She was asleep. How could she sleep? While I didn't know where Thayer's story ends, she welcomed me inside and excused me to change her clothes. Please don't. I hastily replied to her apology. She raised her eyebrows, turned pale and said, what's the matter with you? Something must have happened to your grandfather. Or what on earth could bring you this early when you haven't visited me in months. Oh, God. What happened to him? I had to calm her down and drive away her worries. It's Thayer who brought me this early. I said. Yes, baba. I asked Aunty Karama. I had to, for I knew she was your closest friend. Ever since you were a little kid who couldn't spell Palestine. She always prides herself on the fact that she taught you to spell it just right. You had always believed in its bigness. P for passion. A for aspiration. L for life. E for existence. S for sanity. T for trust. I for you. N for nation. E for exaltation. And then you wrote it just right. You wrote it everywhere you could. On walls, on tables. You carved the stunning letters into trees and ended up with them engraved in your heart. What about Thayer? She bluntly answered my direct question. Hope found its way back to my heart to congratulate me on the fact that Auntie did know Thayer. I mean, what happened to him in the end? Did he manage to get his way back to the orphanage?

[Wells Fargo Ad Voice / Glenn Washington]

Did he.

[Margaret Killjoy]

Did Amal survive? I asked. But she chose not to give an answer. Truth be told, I was disappointed. I felt you didn't trust my heart. You didn't want me to get any closer to your story. She returned dressed in black and said, get up. We are going somewhere special. With my teary eyes, I gazed at her and said, where on this part of the planet is there somewhere special? She got angry at my answer and said, I am not worthy of knowing Thayer in the first place. If I didn't believe in this part of the planet, you have to know that. I felt ashamed. We eventually left. She took me to places I have never been to. The narrow, dark roads of the camp captivated my heart. I felt that bittersweet sensation. I felt you were there. I was sure you were there. On our way to the special place, Aunty Karama didn't stop talking about every single family in the camp. Stories of deep agony were our companions. I asked her how she could know all these stories. She said that our nakba is no secret. I admired her more than ever. In my eyes, she had been no more than a dull history teacher. It was the first time I knew that she refused to get promoted to be more than a third grade teacher. She believed in children. She said she couldn't leave the hope that resides in their pure little hearts. Here we are, she said. I was totally surprised. Was it even a place I went in speechless? Auntie Kurama seemed to enjoy the remnants of a burned house. A scent coming out of the earth enveloped me. I couldn't wave it away. Auntie's smiling silence started to press heavier on my heart. I lost sense of the place. I'm nowhere. I'm everywhere. I'm here. Auntie's fruity voice finally came to life, such that you wouldn't believe it had ever been silent. Goodness. Can you feel it? Your father spent his entire youth teaching the kids here to spell Palestine. P for passion, A for aspiration. L for life. E for existence. S for sanity. T for trust. I for you. N for nation. E for example. Exultation. I, for a few seconds, was afraid that she too had gone crazy. Which kids, Auntie? Your special place is no more than a wasteland. I spoke finally. She swallowed what seemed to be a great deal of anger. She went back to the ruins. She smiled, she laughed, she cried. She went on sighing, now what does your place have to do with Thayer and Amal? I. Interact interrupted her ongoing sighs. You know what, Miriam? You blew it. However, I've always believed life is about second chances. You hardly ever deserve them, but at some point we all need them. She tenderly replied to my rudeness. She went on asking me, if you prayed for courage, does God give you courage? Or the chance to be courageous? If you prayed for truth, does God give you his truth in your hand or the chance to open your eyes? Life takes work, I believe, I briefly answered. Then open your eyes, sweetheart. Look past the burned house. You'll find the answer by yourself. I believe in you. I believe in whomever. Your father told the story of Thayer, she said, smiling at my teary eyes. I couldn't see anything, Bob, omb. Nothing caught my bleeding heart. I felt ashamed. I felt you deserved a better successor. I lowered my head to the ground. I smiled, I laughed, I cried. I kept on sighing at the sight of the olive tree standing alive at the very edge of the burned house of the orphanage. Thayer's seeds grew up. Nothing else was left. But the tree was enough for me, for Amal, for Thayer, and for you, my dearest Baba. It is when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to look past all those electricity free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gaza night, feel the fresh air going straight to my heart. I think of you, of me, of Palestine, of the orphanage, of the olive tree, of you, of Amal, of Mama, of you, of my history class, of Aunty Karama, of you, of God, of Palestine, of Thayer's story. That's the end of that story. Oh Lord, what do I have to say about this story? I almost Feel selfish in the way that the story connects with me. But my Irish grandmother went by Baba, and I don't know why. So immediately when I start the story, I think about my grandmother, who always talked to the dead. She lost her son, like, when he was, you know, a young man. And she never, you know, really recovered from it. And she would walk around and she would talk to him, and it kind of. I don't know whether that was cultural or religious for her or not, but it kind of rubbed off on the family to just talk to the dead. So this story of talking to Baba hit me real hard. And, I don't know, also, while reading it, I feel really grateful for the job I have. I know this sounds weird. I feel really grateful that I got to read these stories to you. It feels like the payoff of doing this show is this particular episode and this way of understanding that people are people all over the world and that when we reduce things to news stories, we lose the actual stories. And it's through story and poetry that we really understand who each other are and that we're able to connect with each other. And I think that we have any hope of accomplishing anything. And I really appreciate this story's willingness to be raw and honest about being like, I'm not a worthy successor. Right. But no one is. And we're all just people. And I really like how well this story carries that. And it doesn't put us down. Doesn't put people down to say, we're just people. You know, the father is not a perfect character in this book or whatever. Right. Neither is the protagonist. And yet, you know, here they are doing the thing, and they're not put down in any way. And if anything, they're elevated by that. Yeah. And Hazel, who I owe so much to for helping put all of this together. Hazel says, quote, this story and Sarah's both split my heart open at every turn. A way toward hardness and apathy. Hanan invites readers to turn towards the rending, to feel her deep grief, but also her profound connection to place, to history, to legacy, to life itself. It makes me feel raw, so mortal, but so alive. It's been a few days since I read these again while writing the script. And what they say about how inviting in the grief invites the joy and attention is so true, and it's a wonder to keep learning this. I've been just so heavy with grief for Gaza and Palestine, but at the same time, never more enraptured by the sunset on my drive home, so full of gratitude for the lingering strawberry taste of a sour candy so attuned to my rootedness to the city I call home. Palestine really is the heart of it all. And to close out this particular episode, I have one poem for you today and it's by the anthology's editor, Dr. Rafaad Alarir. Originally from Gaza, Rafaat completed his graduate studies in the UK and earned a PhD in English in Malaysia. Afterward, he went back home to Gaza, determined to serve his community. He took a position as a professor of English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, where he had completed his bachelor's degree, where he taught for 16 years. He frequently said that one of his main goals of teaching was to highlight the parallel experiences of Palestinians and Jews through literature, and this is hard to read. Refaat co founded the organization We Are Not Numbers, which paired up established writers with emerging authors in Gaza, promoting the power of storytelling as a means of Palestinian resistance against the Israeli occupation. According to Wikipedia, Refaat also volunteered at the Gaza Zoo, which he continued during the war. Ali Abanima remembers Refaat as teaching us that stories are what binds us together and keep our hope alive. Rafaat was killed by an Israeli missile strike on December 6, 2023, alongside his brother Saleh and Salah's son Muhammad, his sister Asma and her three children Allah, Yahya and Muhammad, while they were all taking shelter in Asma's apartment. He was 44 years old. In a statement, the Euro Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor stated that because of the highly surgical nature of the strike, it is likely that Refaat and his family were deliberately targeted. Over 30 members of Refaats and his wife's Nusaba's family have been murdered by the Israeli military, including his daughter Shaima, who was murdered with her infant child, who would have been Refaat's first grandchild. From the anthologies 2024 forward by Ali Abhinamma Rafaat's killing was part of Israel's systematic and targeted extermination of Gaza's leading intellectuals, academics and scientists, a hallmark of genocide. By late 2024, Israel had murdered at least 94 university professors, along with hundreds of teachers and thousands of students. It had destroyed every university in Gaza and damaged or destroyed hundreds of schools. And then from Wikipedia, because this editor's phrasing is too good to adapt. In his last interview before being killed with the sound of Israeli bombs exploding in the background, Alir said that Gazanz felt helpless and that while he had no weapons, he would defend himself if the Israeli army were to come to his house using his Expo marker. In 2011, Refaat published the poem if I Must Die electronically, and it's since been read widely and Translated into over 200 languages. Ahmed Nahad, a close friend and colleague of Refaat, remembered if I Must Die was actually written for his daughter Shaimam. She's the one that was told to tell his story, to sell his things and to not lose hope, ahmed said. And so here's this poem if I Must Die by Refaat Alarir. If I must die, you must live to tell my story, to sell my things, to buy a piece of cloth and some strings, make it white with a long tail so that a child somewhere in Gaza will looking heaven in the eye awaiting his dad who left in a blaze and bid no one farewell, not even to his flesh, not even to himself. Sees the kite, my kite you made flying up above and thinks for a moment an angel is there bringing back love. If I must die, let it bring hope, let it be a tale and the Bios of our Authors today Sarah Ali I'm a Palestinian teacher and a writer from Gaza. I studied English Literature at the Islamic University of Gaza and have recently finished a PhD in English at the University of Cambridge. I blog mostly in Arabic from time to time at sarah l I.WordPress.com since the start of the genocide, Samir foundation has been doing great work in Gaza. People can donate at samirfoundation.org S A M I R foundation.org and Hanan Habashi I'm Hanan, an educator with a background in applied linguistics and literature. Much of what I do, whether in teaching, storytelling or community projects, has been shaped by questions of language, memory, and the ordinary human story. People can keep up with me through my instagram account @hananrights. That's H A N A R I G H T S. I use it to share writing, reflections and projects close to my heart. And the anthology that these stories come from Gaza writes back is available online from PM Press or in person from a radical bookstore near you. And I'm Margaret Killjoy. And until next time, fuck Ice Free Palestine. Take care of each other. We're all we've got. We're all we need. It could happen.

[Jenny Garth]

Here is a production of Cool Zone Media.

[Margaret Killjoy]

For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media,

[Jenny Garth]

Visit our website coolzonemedia.com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts you can now find sources for it could happen here, listed directly in Episode Descriptions. Thanks for listening. Wasn't that delicious?

[Margaret Killjoy]

So good.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

I got it.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

Seriously, I insist.

[Jenny Garth]

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[Margaret Killjoy]

Don't be silly.

[Jenny Garth]

You don't be silly.

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[Jenny Garth]

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[Margaret Killjoy]

Rock, paper, scissors.

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[Margaret Killjoy]

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[Margaret Killjoy]

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