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The rest of the building is open so please do visit!\u003C/p>\u003Cp>\u003Cbr /> \u003C/p>","Got it",{"globalSet":139},{"id":140,"handle":141,"heading":12,"richText":142},"11","gdpr",{"html":143},"\u003Cp>We use cookies to give you the best experience. By clicking 'Accept' you consent to the use of all cookies. \u003Ca href=\"/privacy-policy\">Privacy Policy\u003C/a>.\u003C/p>",{"entries":145},[146],{"uri":147,"title":148,"typeHandle":149},"ibraaz-publishing/writing-gaza/well-meet-tomorrow-in-the-daylight","We’ll Meet Tomorrow in the Daylight","longForm",{"globalSet":151},{"id":152,"handle":153,"heading":154,"richText":155},"37","forms","Culture is a work in progress. Stay updated.",{"html":156},"\u003Cp>By subscribing to our newsletter you are agreeing to receiving updates and communications from Ibraaz.\u003C/p>",{"categories":158},[159,164,168,172,176,180,184,188],{"id":160,"slug":161,"title":162,"groupHandle":163},"4488","exhibitions","Exhibition","events",{"id":165,"slug":166,"title":167,"groupHandle":163},"4490","talks","Talk",{"id":169,"slug":170,"title":171,"groupHandle":163},"15579","music","Music",{"id":173,"slug":174,"title":175,"groupHandle":163},"4489","performance","Performance",{"id":177,"slug":178,"title":179,"groupHandle":163},"4492","film","Film",{"id":181,"slug":182,"title":183,"groupHandle":163},"6390","library-in-residence","Library-in-Residence",{"id":185,"slug":186,"title":187,"groupHandle":163},"18154","special-projects","Special Project",{"id":189,"slug":190,"title":191,"groupHandle":163},"18170","workshops","Workshop",{"entry":193},{"id":194,"uri":147,"title":148,"slug":195,"postDate":196,"typeHandle":149,"sectionHandle":197,"meta":198,"readCategories":201,"writeCategories":202,"missionCategories":205,"figure":206,"pdf":207,"authorInfo":208,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":213,"richDescription":12,"richExcerpt":12,"image":215,"externalLinks":223,"entrySections":224,"related":263},"25808","well-meet-tomorrow-in-the-daylight","2026-06-24T00:00:00+01:00","writingGaza",[199],{"title":148,"description":12,"image":200},[],[],[203],{"title":75,"slug":204},"writing-gaza",[],[],[],[209],{"authorName":210,"authorBio":211},"Hamed Ashour",{"html":212},"\u003Cp style=\"margin-left:0px;\">\u003Cstrong>Hamed Ashour\u003C/strong> is a Palestinian poet and an instructor in creative writing from Gaza. He has published the poetry collections \u003Ci>Wounds Trying Themselves\u003C/i> (2017) and \u003Ci>No Exchanges or Returns for This Merchandise\u003C/i> (2021). He obtained a bachelor’s degree in Social and Family Development from Al-Quds Open University in 2017. He is involved with several civil society organisations as a social worker, particularly for encouraging children’s writing in the war. His works have been published by local and international magazines and institutions, including by the Centre international de poésie Marseille.\u003C/p>",{"html":214},"\u003Cp>Translated from Arabic by Omar Berrada\u003C/p>",[216],{"id":217,"path":218,"alt":12,"title":219,"width":220,"height":221,"mimeType":222},"25985","Haidar-Al-Ghazali/1000102870_2026-06-23-151655_wayr.jpg","1000102870",1869,1851,"image/jpeg",[],[225,227,231,234,237,248,251,254,257,260],{"typeHandle":226,"richText":12},"intro",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":229},"content",{"html":230},"\u003Cp>\u003Ci>What follows is a selection of brief texts composed by Hamed Ashour between late 2024 and early 2026, a period of extended displacement and starvation amid the ongoing genocide. Together they form a series of portraits of people and places in Gaza. They were initially posted on Facebook and accompanied by photographs.\u003C/i>\u003C/p>\u003Cp> \u003C/p>\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>28 November 2024\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I’ve been watching this woman. For hours she has refused any and all offers of help. I watched as she pulled a lone loaf of bread from her bag, ate a third of it, and gave the rest to her daughter.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>She drank a third of a cup of hot tea, then presented the rest to her daughter. And when it was time to sleep, she took a third of the seat and gave the other two-thirds to her daughter.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Even with the phone call she asked me to make for her, she spoke for a few brief seconds and let her daughter finish the conversation ...\u003C/p>\u003Cp>So it went, for hours – she took no more than a third of anything. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>A third of the air and the food and the water, as if to say:\u003C/p>\u003Cp>\u003Ci>It is the nature of mothers to take a third and leave the rest.\u003C/i>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Except for ‘grief’ – the one thing they carry in full.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":232},{"html":233},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>28 December 2024\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Life is harsh, Rahaf, so very harsh, sweet little one.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I remember the story you wrote, during the writing and filmmaking workshops, about your displacement and hardship.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I still have that piece of paper. The text was full of mistakes, and I scolded you that day, in front of your classmates: \u003Ci>Why so many spelling errors!\u003C/i>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>You tried to explain why as we walked back from the workshop; you said that your heart was shaking, that you were writing the story with eyes full of tears.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Now I understand …\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Now I write to you carrying my mistakes in a basket of excuses.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I can’t see the phone screen, and I don’t know how many spelling errors my fingers have made, but my heart is shaking and my eyes are filled with tears.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>You know, little one, I don’t believe in goodbyes. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>So … go to sleep; stay warm. We’ll meet tomorrow in the daylight.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":235},{"html":236},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>19 January 2025\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>In the centre of the image is a cat.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>This cat is my guide to finding my home amidst the rubble. I went to Rafah and couldn’t find anything there. Memory did not serve, nor did asking around. I was lost looking for streets and buildings; everything had been wiped out, everyone was lost.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Except this cat. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>She knows me and I know her. She emerged from the rubble and ran towards me, fawning and rubbing against my leg – as though she wanted to apologise for finding nothing to eat but the corpses of my friends and neighbours. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>Then she went and stood atop a pile of rubble, as if to let me know somehow that this wreckage in the picture \u003C/p>\u003Cp>is my home.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":238,"image":239,"caption":244,"width":246,"ratio":247},"figure",[240],{"id":241,"path":242,"alt":12,"title":219,"width":243,"height":243,"mimeType":222},"25976","Haidar-Al-Ghazali/1000102870.jpg",2048,{"html":245},"\u003Cp>Ahmad Al-Adawy, \u003Ci>A Heavy Guest\u003C/i> (2025), digital art. Courtesy of the artist.\u003C/p>","wide","landscape",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":249},{"html":250},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>4 April 2025\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I walk past this hill every day, and every time I see this kind young man standing in front of it, as if stunned, or digging into it like a madman, using his fingernails in the absence of tools. He is searching for something.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Months ago, the hill was larger than it appears in the photograph – more like a sand dune created by Israeli bulldozers. They hauled in a great deal of sand to build this barrier, and in doing so, they swept away the bodies of four members of this young man’s family right before his eyes.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>To this day, he digs and digs; whenever he finds a part of one of his brothers’ bodies, he takes it to the cemetery and buries it. Whenever his hands brush against a bone buried in the hill, he pulls it out, examines it carefully, and places it in its proper grave.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>This is how a Palestinian builds a family.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":252},{"html":253},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>21 July 2025\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Chronic hunger and malnutrition made me so weak that a tiny insect bit me in the foot.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>The insect was barely visible – no bigger than a pinhead … but it left a scar, followed by a disaster.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Imagine this body, which once had a strong immune system, normal white blood cell count, and natural antibodies, unable to recover from the effects of that bite for a whole week.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>The small scar turned into a massive tumour; it oozed pus and blood; it prevented me from walking.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I had no choice but to limp to the British field hospital. As I watched the wounded without hands or feet, I was too ashamed to say: ‘All there is to it … is that an insect bit me.’\u003C/p>\u003Cp>But I know, and the doctor knows, that the problem lies not in the bite, but in this body that has lost even the right to heal.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":255},{"html":256},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>6 September 2025\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>On day 700 of the genocide, this man is still calling on people to remain steadfast.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He opened his heart and his home to the displaced while he slept on the doorstep.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He organised the water distribution queues and was the last to drink.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He ate half his loaf of bread and drank half his share of water, then chanted for all of Palestine, because he wants all of it.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>This is my father.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>For days now, I’ve been carrying him in my arms, running with him from tent to tent in the field hospitals.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I found no stretcher, no ambulance, not even a donkey to help me carry him.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>My sorrow is heavy because the eagle is wounded this time. The hero is bedridden, unconscious; he has forgotten even my name and who I might be.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>His voice is missing from the tent; his place in the water queue remains empty.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>This man, who split firewood and lit fires and gathered the young and the old, who was the last to leave Rafah when the fighting and the siege intensified … here he is, opening his eyes this morning.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He called my name. I ran to him, falling to my knees with joy.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He cursed at me, and my heart nearly burst with happiness.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>This man, undefeated by a diabetic coma, undeterred by hunger and malnutrition, is still standing, even if on a field bed. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>His voice is still chanting for Palestine, all of it, all of it.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":258},{"html":259},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>28 October 2025\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Now I know how the Sudanese live. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>This morning I know the taste of their breakfast, and what they must do to survive until the afternoon.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I know how cunningly they trick the Janjaweed militia to enter El Fasher with wheat and barley in hand.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I know you, noble Sudanese, and I see you.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Before you, I ate the mule’s fodder and hauled its loads; I still roam like a bull among the waterways.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I know what jingles in your back pocket – a few coins, a draft of air – while you tally the bill of hunger and look at the queues,\u003C/p>\u003Cp>at the tents\u003C/p>\u003Cp>at the ruins.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>I know you, son of sand and salt water, when you pass a morsel by your heart and your mouth, when you fill your nights with stars and your days with corpses, when you measure your distances by the muezzin’s call.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>And I love you even more when you lie, when you point to smoke and say: ‘This is a passing cloud, and that blast is but a clamorous celebration in the distance.’ \u003C/p>\u003Cp>And I love you when you steal, when you plunder all the stars of the night in order to not lose your way.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":228,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":261},{"html":262},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>13 January 2026\u003C/strong>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>\u003Ci>To Malik al-Shinbari and the smell that lingers in memory.\u003C/i>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>This is the man we found lying near Nasser Hospital. The indifferent rain poured down on him as he lay stretched out under a blanket, face and identity hidden. Nothing emanated from him but that smell. I tried to move the man and stopped.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>The smell was more than I could bear.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>People gathered around me as I emptied out my insides, as if my body were rejecting the whole scene.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>You came afterwards and carried him. You leaned him against the entrance of a shop, as if to offer him a shred of dignity, and you returned towards me, vomiting your own insides. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>What are we going to do now? I asked, and you said:\u003C/p>\u003Cp>'Let’s kill him … Let’s kill him without delay … We’ll take him from here to the cemetery and shoot him.'\u003C/p>\u003Cp>We laughed out of sheer helplessness and distress – an unforgivable laugh.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Now the man has died, bitten by the rabid cold. On WhatsApp, his photo was circulated among those who were unidentified. When I saw it, I recognised him immediately.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>We should have killed him so he would have a place to call his own, a door to close behind him, a warm bathroom, and radiant skin as you can see,\u003C/p>\u003Cp>and a white robe, we suppose.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>It was our duty to kill a homeless man so the earth would accept him at last, with a square metre where no one bothers him, no one crowds him, and no one asks him to leave. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>He died weightless, with no debts or farewells; he did not cost the state a burial permit or an inheritance inventory.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He slipped away from life, without commotion, uproar, or funeral.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>He died alone, outside memory, outside the news, and outside of mourning, free from the tears and the wailing of parents and neighbours.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>We should have killed him so he would become more handsome ...\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Look, this is the man I couldn’t bring myself to get close to; and now I am ready to kiss him.\u003C/p>",[264],{"title":12,"relatedEntries":265},[266,285,303],{"typeHandle":267,"entries":268},"channelsEntries",[269],{"title":75,"uri":270,"image":271,"readCategories":278,"writeCategories":279,"missionCategories":281,"authorInfo":282},"ibraaz-publishing/writing-gaza/writing-gaza",[272],{"id":273,"path":274,"alt":12,"title":275,"width":276,"height":277,"mimeType":222},"5756","writing-gaza/Marwan-Nassar-Untitled-2025.jpg","Marwan Nassar Untitled 2025",2240,3126,[],[280],{"title":75,"slug":204},[],[283],{"authorName":284},"Omar Berrada & Shivangi Mariam Raj",{"typeHandle":267,"entries":286},[287],{"title":288,"uri":289,"image":290,"readCategories":297,"writeCategories":298,"missionCategories":300,"authorInfo":301},"Hunger Is Writing","ibraaz-publishing/writing-gaza/hunger-is-writing",[291],{"id":292,"path":293,"alt":12,"title":294,"width":295,"height":296,"mimeType":222},"7147","Hunger-is-Writing/Hamza-Mansour-Evacuation-Acrylic-on-canvas-2025_2025-10-05-073304_dogj.jpeg","Hamza Mansour Evacuation Acrylic on canvas 2025",3628,3649,[],[299],{"title":75,"slug":204},[],[302],{"authorName":210},{"typeHandle":267,"entries":304},[305],{"title":306,"uri":307,"image":308,"readCategories":315,"writeCategories":319,"missionCategories":320,"authorInfo":321},"The Voice of Hind Rajab: Kaouther Ben Hania in conversation with Selma Dabbagh","ibraaz-publishing/read/the-voice-of-hind-rajab-kaouther-ben-hania-in-conversation-with-selma-dabbagh",[309],{"id":310,"path":311,"alt":12,"title":312,"width":313,"height":314,"mimeType":222},"21092","Kaouther-Ben-Hania-Selma-Dabbagh-interview/THE-VOICE-OF-HIND-RAJAB-5.jpg","THE VOICE OF HIND RAJAB 5",4096,1716,[316],{"title":317,"slug":318},"Interview","interview",[],[],[322],{"authorName":323},"Selma Dabbagh"]