I changed.
I became another person I don’t recognize —
a man with a broken heart,
who lost his loved ones too early.
I used to dream of building a future.
Now I count losses instead of plans.
I changed.
Like Gaza, I bid farewell to everything I see,
because it might be the last time.
I stopped planning for the future.
I live each day as if it’s my last —
no person, animal, stone or tree is safe from the fangs of evil.
I changed.
Loss is no longer a moment —
it’s a place we live in,
and we carry its weight in silence.
I changed.
Illness and hunger have worn down my mother’s gentle body.
Even though she’s in the hospital,
I see her in the face of every mother I pass.
I move closer to embrace her —
only to realize, it’s not her.
I changed.
White flour turns red in my memory —
too many of my friends died bringing it home.
Our bread tastes like bitterness and grief.
Our bread tastes death.
I changed.
I don’t remember the last time I slept with both eyes closed.
One is always open —
ready to flee, if I even get the chance.
I changed.
My once-strong body is fragile now.
I don’t remember the taste of meat,
of chicken, of fruit.
I changed.
My feelings are numb.
When someone is killed,
I don’t cry anymore.
Wherever they’ve gone —
it’s better than here.
I changed.
But the world looks away.
And Gaza, like me, keeps breaking in silence.
And Gaza, like me, is breaking — but not gone.
Ahmed Dremly is a Gaza-based journalist whose writings have appeared in Mondoweiss, Palestine Chronicle, The Electronic Intifada and Al-Monitor.