I Long for My Old World – A Poem from Gaza
I long for Gaza, before the war,
When winter nights were warmed not by heaters, but by my grandfather’s voice threading through the cold,
telling tales that curled around our fingers like steam from tea.
I long for his house, where peace didn’t need to be spoken—it sat quietly in every corner,
like the sunlight that filtered through lace curtains.
I long for the garden trees, for the way his hands—older than the soil—lifted the water each morning and gave it to them like a ritual.
I long for my uncle’s house,
for the way my aunt’s laughter lingered in the kitchen long after she had gone.
I long for my uncle, my male cousin, and my female cousin—
not just names, but echoes of warmth still knocking on memory’s door.
I long for the moments I sat beside my uncle,
His voice carries a timeless rhythm, like a heartbeat from the past.
He spoke as if every word mattered,
and every pause held something sacred, something unsaid.
Back then, we lived through golden hours we mistook for ordinary—
Only now do we see how brightly they shone.
I long for the talks, for the softness of voices mingling over tea,
and for the laughter that arrived without needing a reason.
I long for my loved ones,
the ones who used to walk in and light up the hallway with their presence,
who filled the air with footsteps, stories, and smells of food that meant love.
I long for the faces that once made rooms feel like entire cities—
the ones who didn’t just exist, but brought the walls to life.
I long for my friends,
for the late-night talks that seemed to stretch endlessly into the dark,
where our dreams soared higher than the kites we never had the chance to finish.
We spoke of futures as if we held the very stars in our hands,
and our words could shape the course of hope itself.
We passed books, shared our deepest thoughts, and asked questions that seemed trivial—yet each conversation wove us closer together, a delicate thread binding our days, keeping us connected in the face of time.
I long for my school,
where the sound of the bell marked the beginning of endless possibilities,
where the chalk dust danced in the air, carrying whispers of unspoken dreams.
I long for the Islamic University,
where the buildings were more than structures—they were the foundation of my future,
where my aspirations found their first breath and took their first steps.
I long for the teachers who pushed me to speak English,
and the professor who smiled gently and said, “Mistake is halal”—
as if failure were not something to fear, but a necessary part of learning
I long for the streets we walked,
our shadows long with dreams that dared to stretch ahead of us.
And for the mosques where our whispered prayers rose like birds—
free, fierce, and full of faith.
I long for the simple life,
for moments we didn’t pause to admire,
because we were too busy living them.
For the safety that used to wrap Gaza like a mother’s shawl,
for mornings that began with bread, not breaking news.
I long for the peace that arrived with the call to prayer
and stayed until the second cup of tea.
To Fridays with the big chicken dish,
its scent traveling down the stairs before the plate ever reached the table.
I long for the way the family gathered—shoulder to shoulder, story to story—
how laughter rose like steam from the rice,
how home felt less like a place and more like a breath you didn’t want to exhale.
To those days,
when we didn’t yet carry the weight of names we no longer call.
When “loss” was just a word in a story, not the story itself.
But most of all,
I long for the girl I was—
The one who smiled without fear,
Whose laughter didn’t tremble when windows rattled.
She dreamed with arms wide open,
Wore hope like a favorite color,
A constant flame that never dimmed.
She was whole,
Before sorrow etched cracks on her joy,
Before grief became her shadow,
Before the world grew heavy with loss.
Back then, each new day was a sky,
Endless, free, without limits,
She believed tomorrow was hers to walk—
Step by step, without fear,
Unaware that war would come,
Drawing red lines through her dreams,
Scattering them beneath the rubble,
Like forgotten pages of a diary.
That girl,
The one before the storm,
Before her world turned to ash,
She is the one I long to be again.
– Taqwa Ahmed al-Wawi is an aspiring writer and student of English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, carving her path in a city that speaks the language of resilience. She contributed this article to the Palestine Chronicle.
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