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SAAG editor Zuneera Shah interviews Mohammed Hanif on the afterlives of rumour and ruin. | · BOOKS & ARTS Interview · Okara The Agile Rumour and Bhutto Burners SAAG editor Zuneera Shah interviews Mohammed Hanif on the afterlives of rumour and ruin. Hanif (2026), digital sketch by Iman Iftikhar. Pakistani author and journalist Mohammed Hanif, celebrated for his darkly comic dissections of power in novels like A Case of Exploding Mangoes and Red Birds , returns to the landscapes of his childhood in his fourth novel, Rebel English Academy (February 2026). Following its release, we spoke about the figure of the fallen revolutionary, the stubborn afterlives of political memory, and the fraught, often mischievous interplay of language and power that continues to shape how histories are told. Zuneera Shah Your new novel takes us to your hometown, Okara, which Inspector A.D. Malang memorably describes as “basically just a big vegetable market—the biggest in the region, but still a vegetable market.” It’s certainly a lively one, from Bhutto burners to the enterprising Gol Mosque. Tell us about Okara in this historical moment and why you chose to set the action there. Mohammed Hanif As a child, it was an exotic place where you went once a year to buy new schoolbooks. We lived just outside the city in a Chak, and going to Okara seemed like an adventure. I did my primary school in the village before I went to high school in the city. It was probably my first culture shock, my first taste of shame at being a paindu, not civilized enough. Boys there spoke proper Urdu. Some of them called their parents mummy or papa. They had doorbells, and if you ever got asked in, you sat in a drawing room and were offered tea. In my village, tea was strictly for sick people. I think my new mates probably also found me a bit backward but exotic— you have your own buffaloes, and they live with you in the house —that kind of exotic. At one point, it had been a very strong centre of labour unions, because of a large state-owned cotton mill, which was slowly dismantled to make way for housing schemes. In the 70s, it was also called Punjab's Larkana because a lot of labourers and peasants, and even very religious types, had bought into Bhutto's dream of people power. During the last twenty years, it has had a massive peasant movement after they tried to evict people from military farms. It's a strangely apolitical place that goes through radical political eruption every few decades. At one point it was called the potato capital of South Asia. It used to be a place of opportunity where a potter’s son could become a teacher or a police inspector. There are fewer opportunities now. A potter’s son can’t even become a potter. OK, I guess, is still a cool number plate. But yes, it's a big vegetable market. ZS While Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s hanging, a harrowing moment in Pakistan’s collective memory, is the opening act, the novel follows a web of characters who become embroiled in its national aftermath. What drew you to zoom out and explore the reverberations? MH I didn't know much about Bhutto or his politics, but I did see the paraphernalia that surrounded it. You saw the pamphleteers, flags on bicycle handles, trade unionists, and, for some odd reason, even poets felt empowered. Some of these characters were circling each other without being interconnected, their lives seeping in and out of each other. I had no idea what Bhutto's place in history was, but I knew people whose lives and livelihoods were affected. I was curious about their heartbreak, their fated struggles, their ongoing arguments about what if… ZS The novel captures the agility of rumour so well, how quickly it latches on, mutates, and survives. Beyond the principal rumour that Bhutto is still alive, half-truths haunt nearly every character. What interests you about the political function of rumour, and what does it allow you to do narratively? MH I think it's the best form of storytelling. It combines the best bits of writing: truth, gossip, fantasy, tapping into people's fears. Even if you start a really wild rumour, people will find a twisted nugget of truth in it and they will want to believe it. In my lifetime, I have heard more rumours that turned out to be true than not. As a child, Bhutto's hanging was a rumour to me. Zia's plane crash was an outlandish rumour for a good few hours. I have always thought: take the wildest rumour and fill it up with silly details and you will have a novel, because I really don't have any great insight into the human condition. But if you try to follow a rumour you might reach the truth, or as close as you can get to it. ZS Let’s talk about Sir Baghi, a socialist revolutionary turned English tutor. His atheist tendencies and disinterest in women are widely known. He rebels against the norm and is, in turn, implicated in betrayals. How did you think about holding these tensions together in one character? MH Every town has its own fallen revolutionary and I have been very curious about their slow downfall, the way our society grinds them down. One day, you want to change the world and a few years later, you are a joke. I have been lucky to have some really good teachers, tutors, and editors in my life, and I am always curious about their motivations, how some are able to be recklessly selfless. Some of them are fiercely motivated to pick a fight but also bored with what they do. Pakistan, like many countries, has many closeted gay men, who are married to women and have children. It’s convenient, it’s almost expected. But then you’ll come across someone who refuses to be part of this family-friendly hypocrisy, who wants to cruise, who has principles. ZS Sabiha is the only character allowed a first-person voice, and she is surrounded, on all sides, by men. She tells her story through a series of school essays. What drew you to that form? MH I struggled with it for a long time, then I remembered these essays, letters, and applications that we were asked to write as primary school students. They had set formats, their own language—very formal, very respectful, but also full of absurd details. My favourite was called a raahdari , a little official note that you had to write if you were transporting cattle from one city to another. You had to describe the identifiable physical features of the animal accompanying you, the reasons for transporting it, and a pledge of sorts that you had not stolen it. In my head, I am always rustling a buffalo but writing a good enough raahdari to get away with it. ZS There's almost a perfect allegory in that, the idea that in writing one can be true or innocent. Sabiha's narrative is itself the act of writing, not just narrating. Why was it important that she get to write down her piece? MH A lot of working people's children are forced to grow up very fast, in very harsh circumstances, and their crackling ambition is often written off as resilience or survival instinct. Their ideas might be fully formed but they are almost never allowed to speak in their own idiom. Many journalists and writers like me pretend to be their voice but here in these homework assignments, there was a window to let Sabiha tell her own story even if the permission to write it, and the format to write it in, came from a man. And she sets out to shred that very format. There has always been this perverse curiosity, and fear, about what young girls write in their personal diaries and journals. As a journalist, I have seen Baloch girls grow up in protest camps, on roadsides, in public squares, and during the long stretches of the day when no actual protest is happening, I have seen them scribble. Some of them are now old enough to end up in jail. Others are still scribbling. That image might have stayed with me. ZS The novel seems skeptical about testimony. It erodes the notion that speaking truth, or speaking at all, can lead to clarity or justice. MH I believe testimony is crucial, this is my testimony, but at the heart of every testimony is a story and I want to believe that story. I may not believe everybody, but it's important to listen, to record it, to puncture holes in it. Sometimes, testimony only becomes authentic if it has enough inconsistencies. I am always suspicious of neat testimonies. ZS Your characters surveil each other and the state surveils the town. There are layers of being watched. Yet there is an itch to be witnessed, to have an audience for their lives. What interested you about placing those two impulses side by side? MH Where I grew up, everybody knew everything about everyone. If you were hiding something, the world could look away or the consequences were harsh. If you ran to a city for anonymity, eventually this urge crept in: to make a name for yourself, to start your own tribe, with the state always watching. Being invisible is a fantasy that rates very high, and so is being recognised by everyone. I think this business of writing stories is an urge to be seen but also to hide behind those stories. ZS The novel draws on history, reportage, and lived memory, yet it is wary of official records or settled accounts. How did you approach the research? MH Mostly sitting at my older brother's wake. A few years ago, he died, and I was suddenly the family elder. I was grieving but also listening to people's stories, little cons they pulled together, forty-year-old court cases. I don't know if you can call it research. I didn't even ask any questions. People just talk. There's something about sitting in a place where people come to condole, knowing that the older brother who protected you from this world is gone. ZS Your last novel, Red Birds, quotes Sabeen Mahmud in the epigraph. Her murder in 2015 marked a brutal act of silencing and in a documentary about her you said, “This was never supposed to happen.” How does her legacy shape the way you think about writing? MH Sabeen used to say that fear is a line in your head. And I still have this running argument with her, in my head, that no, it’s not. It’s not a line, it’s a bullet. Right in your face. Sabeen had a lot of friends in Karachi and beyond. She had no plans of being a martyr and sometimes she was annoyed with all these expectations from her. She wanted to go back to college and be the nerd that she was. That fear is real. Not just about being shot. And worse than the real fear are the people who say they like you, who say you say the right thing. Who always start their conversation by asking: aren't you scared? Don't they say anything to you? Don't you get phone calls? Everybody seems to be reminding you—don't you remember what happened to Sabeen—and you tell yourself that you are wiser now, not as reckless as Sabeen was. And then you remember that she wasn't reckless at all. Her failed argument was: but we are so small. I think that one persists. ZS In the past, you have spoken about how your journalism and political criticism feed your fiction. Is there ever a point when the journalist’s instinct becomes a constraint? MH As a journalist, you have to be constantly producing something, which we used to call a ‘story’. But to my utter dismay, I now produce content. Because of the mahol in the country, I find myself rolling words on my tongue, testing how much offense they might cause, whether I can diffuse it somehow. I find myself reaching out for poetry, reciting overheard verses and old songs, or just making up stuff and quoting my mom. I have been doing these Punjabi videos—political rants, cultural commentary, sometimes just parenting problems—for a few years, and I have seen that people who normally don’t read novels or Urdu commentary watch these videos and say nice things. Maybe it bypasses the literacy issue, but I have a different kind of audience: security guards as well as anthropology professors asking me how come you are allowed to say that in Punjabi, or sometimes just, your Punjabi is so good. So fiction is also a place of safety. Maybe I think I am clever, or maybe I am definitely more of a coward than Sabeen, but here’s a place where I can also shoot somebody in the head in the middle of someone reciting a bad poem. I always hope she’ll approve. ZS It’s interesting that your political content travels differently in Punjabi. Why do you think that is? And how would you map the tension and/or malleability between Urdu and Punjabi, both in the novel's period and in the present? MH It must have something to do with class, or our notions about it. When I published my first novel, a Punjabi gentleman told me that he had never read a novel in English but he read mine and understood it, and that it seemed he was reading a novel in Punjabi, although he had never actually read a novel in Punjabi either. I think most Pakistanis who are not protected by a very expensive education switch back and forth between English, Urdu, and their mother tongue. Urdu is our national project: the language of politics, aspirations, and poetry. Punjabi was exiled from schools and offices, so it retains its intimacy with people and nature and doesn't come pre-programmed with political arguments or some innate authority. A friend recently suggested that people take my Punjabi seriously because they know that I am actually an angrezi novelist. ZS The writer Neel Mukherjee once told me that he admires your work because, as he put it, “you write a new book every time.” What do you make of that? MH That's really nice of him, because I have this fear that although I start writing something new, to take my mind off the failures of the last one, I will end up writing the same book. ZS Would you share a sentence with us that you’re particularly proud of? MH I know you people, killer cries the most. SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Interview Okara Fiction Pakistan Novel Power Politics Rumour Punjab Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 10th Jul 2026 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

SAAG editor Zuneera Shah interviews Mohammed Hanif on the afterlives of rumour and ruin. BOOKS & ARTS The Agile Rumour and Bhutto Burners Zuneera Shah SAAG editor Zuneera Shah interviews Mohammed Hanif on the afterlives of rumour and ruin. Pakistani author and journalist Mohammed Hanif, celebrated for his darkly comic dissections of power in novels like A Case of Exploding Mangoes and Red Birds , returns to the landscapes of his childhood in his fourth novel, Rebel English Academy (February 2026). Following its release, we spoke about the figure of the fallen revolutionary, the stubborn afterlives of political memory, and the fraught, often mischievous interplay of language and power that continues to shape how histories are told. Zuneera Shah Your new novel takes us to your hometown, Okara, which Inspector A.D. Malang memorably describes as “basically just a big vegetable market—the biggest in the region, but still a vegetable market.” It’s certainly a lively one, from Bhutto burners to the enterprising Gol Mosque. Tell us about Okara in this historical moment and why you chose to set the action there. Mohammed Hanif As a child, it was an exotic place where you went once a year to buy new schoolbooks. We lived just outside the city in a Chak, and going to Okara seemed like an adventure. I did my primary school in the village before I went to high school in the city. It was probably my first culture shock, my first taste of shame at being a paindu, not civilized enough. Boys there spoke proper Urdu. Some of them called their parents mummy or papa. They had doorbells, and if you ever got asked in, you sat in a drawing room and were offered tea. In my village, tea was strictly for sick people. I think my new mates probably also found me a bit backward but exotic— you have your own buffaloes, and they live with you in the house —that kind of exotic. At one point, it had been a very strong centre of labour unions, because of a large state-owned cotton mill, which was slowly dismantled to make way for housing schemes. In the 70s, it was also called Punjab's Larkana because a lot of labourers and peasants, and even very religious types, had bought into Bhutto's dream of people power. During the last twenty years, it has had a massive peasant movement after they tried to evict people from military farms. It's a strangely apolitical place that goes through radical political eruption every few decades. At one point it was called the potato capital of South Asia. It used to be a place of opportunity where a potter’s son could become a teacher or a police inspector. There are fewer opportunities now. A potter’s son can’t even become a potter. OK, I guess, is still a cool number plate. But yes, it's a big vegetable market. ZS While Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s hanging, a harrowing moment in Pakistan’s collective memory, is the opening act, the novel follows a web of characters who become embroiled in its national aftermath. What drew you to zoom out and explore the reverberations? MH I didn't know much about Bhutto or his politics, but I did see the paraphernalia that surrounded it. You saw the pamphleteers, flags on bicycle handles, trade unionists, and, for some odd reason, even poets felt empowered. Some of these characters were circling each other without being interconnected, their lives seeping in and out of each other. I had no idea what Bhutto's place in history was, but I knew people whose lives and livelihoods were affected. I was curious about their heartbreak, their fated struggles, their ongoing arguments about what if… ZS The novel captures the agility of rumour so well, how quickly it latches on, mutates, and survives. Beyond the principal rumour that Bhutto is still alive, half-truths haunt nearly every character. What interests you about the political function of rumour, and what does it allow you to do narratively? MH I think it's the best form of storytelling. It combines the best bits of writing: truth, gossip, fantasy, tapping into people's fears. Even if you start a really wild rumour, people will find a twisted nugget of truth in it and they will want to believe it. In my lifetime, I have heard more rumours that turned out to be true than not. As a child, Bhutto's hanging was a rumour to me. Zia's plane crash was an outlandish rumour for a good few hours. I have always thought: take the wildest rumour and fill it up with silly details and you will have a novel, because I really don't have any great insight into the human condition. But if you try to follow a rumour you might reach the truth, or as close as you can get to it. ZS Let’s talk about Sir Baghi, a socialist revolutionary turned English tutor. His atheist tendencies and disinterest in women are widely known. He rebels against the norm and is, in turn, implicated in betrayals. How did you think about holding these tensions together in one character? MH Every town has its own fallen revolutionary and I have been very curious about their slow downfall, the way our society grinds them down. One day, you want to change the world and a few years later, you are a joke. I have been lucky to have some really good teachers, tutors, and editors in my life, and I am always curious about their motivations, how some are able to be recklessly selfless. Some of them are fiercely motivated to pick a fight but also bored with what they do. Pakistan, like many countries, has many closeted gay men, who are married to women and have children. It’s convenient, it’s almost expected. But then you’ll come across someone who refuses to be part of this family-friendly hypocrisy, who wants to cruise, who has principles. ZS Sabiha is the only character allowed a first-person voice, and she is surrounded, on all sides, by men. She tells her story through a series of school essays. What drew you to that form? MH I struggled with it for a long time, then I remembered these essays, letters, and applications that we were asked to write as primary school students. They had set formats, their own language—very formal, very respectful, but also full of absurd details. My favourite was called a raahdari , a little official note that you had to write if you were transporting cattle from one city to another. You had to describe the identifiable physical features of the animal accompanying you, the reasons for transporting it, and a pledge of sorts that you had not stolen it. In my head, I am always rustling a buffalo but writing a good enough raahdari to get away with it. ZS There's almost a perfect allegory in that, the idea that in writing one can be true or innocent. Sabiha's narrative is itself the act of writing, not just narrating. Why was it important that she get to write down her piece? MH A lot of working people's children are forced to grow up very fast, in very harsh circumstances, and their crackling ambition is often written off as resilience or survival instinct. Their ideas might be fully formed but they are almost never allowed to speak in their own idiom. Many journalists and writers like me pretend to be their voice but here in these homework assignments, there was a window to let Sabiha tell her own story even if the permission to write it, and the format to write it in, came from a man. And she sets out to shred that very format. There has always been this perverse curiosity, and fear, about what young girls write in their personal diaries and journals. As a journalist, I have seen Baloch girls grow up in protest camps, on roadsides, in public squares, and during the long stretches of the day when no actual protest is happening, I have seen them scribble. Some of them are now old enough to end up in jail. Others are still scribbling. That image might have stayed with me. ZS The novel seems skeptical about testimony. It erodes the notion that speaking truth, or speaking at all, can lead to clarity or justice. MH I believe testimony is crucial, this is my testimony, but at the heart of every testimony is a story and I want to believe that story. I may not believe everybody, but it's important to listen, to record it, to puncture holes in it. Sometimes, testimony only becomes authentic if it has enough inconsistencies. I am always suspicious of neat testimonies. ZS Your characters surveil each other and the state surveils the town. There are layers of being watched. Yet there is an itch to be witnessed, to have an audience for their lives. What interested you about placing those two impulses side by side? MH Where I grew up, everybody knew everything about everyone. If you were hiding something, the world could look away or the consequences were harsh. If you ran to a city for anonymity, eventually this urge crept in: to make a name for yourself, to start your own tribe, with the state always watching. Being invisible is a fantasy that rates very high, and so is being recognised by everyone. I think this business of writing stories is an urge to be seen but also to hide behind those stories. ZS The novel draws on history, reportage, and lived memory, yet it is wary of official records or settled accounts. How did you approach the research? MH Mostly sitting at my older brother's wake. A few years ago, he died, and I was suddenly the family elder. I was grieving but also listening to people's stories, little cons they pulled together, forty-year-old court cases. I don't know if you can call it research. I didn't even ask any questions. People just talk. There's something about sitting in a place where people come to condole, knowing that the older brother who protected you from this world is gone. ZS Your last novel, Red Birds, quotes Sabeen Mahmud in the epigraph. Her murder in 2015 marked a brutal act of silencing and in a documentary about her you said, “This was never supposed to happen.” How does her legacy shape the way you think about writing? MH Sabeen used to say that fear is a line in your head. And I still have this running argument with her, in my head, that no, it’s not. It’s not a line, it’s a bullet. Right in your face. Sabeen had a lot of friends in Karachi and beyond. She had no plans of being a martyr and sometimes she was annoyed with all these expectations from her. She wanted to go back to college and be the nerd that she was. That fear is real. Not just about being shot. And worse than the real fear are the people who say they like you, who say you say the right thing. Who always start their conversation by asking: aren't you scared? Don't they say anything to you? Don't you get phone calls? Everybody seems to be reminding you—don't you remember what happened to Sabeen—and you tell yourself that you are wiser now, not as reckless as Sabeen was. And then you remember that she wasn't reckless at all. Her failed argument was: but we are so small. I think that one persists. ZS In the past, you have spoken about how your journalism and political criticism feed your fiction. Is there ever a point when the journalist’s instinct becomes a constraint? MH As a journalist, you have to be constantly producing something, which we used to call a ‘story’. But to my utter dismay, I now produce content. Because of the mahol in the country, I find myself rolling words on my tongue, testing how much offense they might cause, whether I can diffuse it somehow. I find myself reaching out for poetry, reciting overheard verses and old songs, or just making up stuff and quoting my mom. I have been doing these Punjabi videos—political rants, cultural commentary, sometimes just parenting problems—for a few years, and I have seen that people who normally don’t read novels or Urdu commentary watch these videos and say nice things. Maybe it bypasses the literacy issue, but I have a different kind of audience: security guards as well as anthropology professors asking me how come you are allowed to say that in Punjabi, or sometimes just, your Punjabi is so good. So fiction is also a place of safety. Maybe I think I am clever, or maybe I am definitely more of a coward than Sabeen, but here’s a place where I can also shoot somebody in the head in the middle of someone reciting a bad poem. I always hope she’ll approve. ZS It’s interesting that your political content travels differently in Punjabi. Why do you think that is? And how would you map the tension and/or malleability between Urdu and Punjabi, both in the novel's period and in the present? MH It must have something to do with class, or our notions about it. When I published my first novel, a Punjabi gentleman told me that he had never read a novel in English but he read mine and understood it, and that it seemed he was reading a novel in Punjabi, although he had never actually read a novel in Punjabi either. I think most Pakistanis who are not protected by a very expensive education switch back and forth between English, Urdu, and their mother tongue. Urdu is our national project: the language of politics, aspirations, and poetry. Punjabi was exiled from schools and offices, so it retains its intimacy with people and nature and doesn't come pre-programmed with political arguments or some innate authority. A friend recently suggested that people take my Punjabi seriously because they know that I am actually an angrezi novelist. ZS The writer Neel Mukherjee once told me that he admires your work because, as he put it, “you write a new book every time.” What do you make of that? MH That's really nice of him, because I have this fear that although I start writing something new, to take my mind off the failures of the last one, I will end up writing the same book. ZS Would you share a sentence with us that you’re particularly proud of? MH I know you people, killer cries the most. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Hanif (2026), digital sketch by Iman Iftikhar. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Interview Okara Fiction Pakistan Novel Power Politics Rumour Punjab ZUNEERA SHAH is a gender & development professional and writer based in Lahore. Interview Okara 10th Jul 2026 IMAN IFTIKHAR is a political theorist, historian, and amateur oil painter and illustrator. She is an editor for Folio Books and a returning fellow at Kitab Ghar Lahore. She is based in Oxford and Lahore. On That Note: The Ahmadis of Petrópolis 21st JAN The Pakistani Left, Separatism & Student Movements 14th DEC Public Art Projects as Feminist Reclamation 29th NOV

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WRITER Solomon P. SOLOMON P. is a writer who has authored two novels: "Vasanthaththai Thedi" (“In Search of Spring”) and "Puzhal Sirai" (“Puzhal Prison”). His political essays have been published in Tamil print media. He is also a social activist. In his youth, he directly witnessed and experienced caste atrocities. For more than twenty years, he has been actively involved in anti-caste and democratic movements. As a result, he has endured many instances of police brutality. He has consistently raised his voice in Tamil Nadu’s public sphere in support of both Palestinian liberation and Tamil Eelam independence, working alongside democratic forces. WRITER WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE

Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. FICTION & POETRY Gaza’s Street AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Gaza Palestine Tamil Fiction Solidarity Short Story India Genocide Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. DISPATCH Gaza Palestine 24th Jun 2026 The restless Mediterranean water struggles in endless desperation to lift the peace that lies within its ocean depths to meet the shores of Gaza. Humid winds awakened by the waves reach out to the refugee camp residing by its side to wipe away the imprints of tears and blood that weigh on the souls that dwell there. The salted air that once blew through houses undestroyed by bombs, through the babbling smiles of children, through the pranks and joys of its youth, through the resting elders, and through the pleasures of lust between couples now blows through tents filled with withering lives, in search of all that has been lost. Vulnerable to rain, cold, heat, and bombs, the refugee camp consists of hundreds of small tents so closely packed together that even hushed whispers are heard as cataclysmic inconveniences. When rumors of bombings spread, the people of the camp, like anxious flapping birds burrowing within their nests, bury themselves within the smallness of their tents. Through the tent opening, their eyes fearfully watch the skies with intent, as their bodies tremble on the soil. They only come out from hiding, in those fleeting moments when the skies bear no weapons, when only peaceful clouds dwell in the vastness of sunlight. In moments when the fear subsides, the elderly Fatima reminisces about the past. - It was only a few months ago that both her husband Ahmed, who had already lost his left leg, and their son Rashid, were swallowed whole by the bomb’s heat. Afterward, Salma, her young daughter-in-law, and Yasin, her two-year-old grandson, were her only roots of existence. In their small lives within the camp tents, Salma raised her son, shielding him from the memories of his father. Fatima, on the other hand, wanted Salma to be freed from the hauntings of her husband’s death. Yet even when Fatima cared for Salma as a mother, it was difficult for her to unburden the worry that had settled deep within Salma's eyes. “They are giving out relief supplies at the UN office. I will go and get them. Until then, you go speak with folks in the other tents,” Fatima told her daughter-in-law that day. Salma, however, retorted, “You stay at home and take care of Yasin; I will go and get them," and she walked the long journey to get the supplies. The most important reason why Salma went to get the supplies was because it allowed her to walk through the same streets where she had once happily lived with her family. But now, the Israeli army, alleging the presence of “terrorsim” on Gaza’s streets, brought entire roads under their sudden control. In these moments, they prohibited people from traveling that way. Even though the journey was long, Salma knew that to get the relief supplies, this street that they once lived on, was the best shortcut. She knew every nook and cranny of this path. If she travelled through the other streets, it would take her further and longer to reach, and by then the relief supplies would have finished as well. Without walking straight down the road, and using certain alleyways instead, you could reach the relief center easier. It was for this reason, too, that she used this street to travel. Whenever she passed through the alleys, Salma would be consumed by the scent of life that once came from these now desecrated houses. In those moments, blissful memories of her husband spread through her heart. Even when they brought her to tears, she would remember the memories fondly. They made each burdening moment much lighter to endure. Just like her, many people walked barefoot along that narrow, unpaved street. Some even travelled through the alleys, bringing their small children along with them. Yasin would often adamantly grab her scarf, saying, “I’m coming too,” in his babbling innocence, but she would firmly deny him. Salma didn't like the idea of seeing her child among the suffocating crowd, holding up a plate to beg for food. That is why, because she came alone, the three of them shared the relief supplies that were meant for one. - Today, the sun had reached its peak. Even though the scorching heat on the street was taking a toll on her bare feet, she continued walking down the street, bearing the longing that she would soon enter the street where they once lived. Her reminiscing led her mind to what once was. Her husband used to run a small provisions store in front of their house. The residents of the area bought their goods from that shop. They lived a bountiful life, with no shortage of food and necessities. Yet Rashid believed that the happiness of the nation was far greater than the happiness of individual life. He secretly contributed a part of his income to the liberation movement. “I should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that has been made impossible. My son should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that too was made impossible. But my grandson or granddaughter will learn to take their first steps on the soil of a liberated Palestine. Inshallah,” he would ritualistically say to Salma whenever they were alone. “Then why didn't you join the movement?” she once asked. A man drowning in sorrow, he took a deep breath and said, “In my childhood, because a bomb fell on our house, my father lost his left leg. After which my mother started a small shop while also looking after my father and the family. I have no siblings and I am an only child. Hence when I grew up, I had to take on the responsibility of the family. But I will have four or five sons, one for the house and the others for the nation, and for that, I am ready to face any anguish that may come my way.” “You may be ready, but as a mother, how can I sacrifice my children to war?” Salma said, jokingly, yet Rashid's face shrunk at these words. With furrowed skin on his forehead, reddened cheeks, and a depth in his eyes, he spoke. “No, Salma, you have to be prepared for that. Our land, which has lived prosperously for hundreds of years, was taken from us in decades by them. Through the help of imperialist nations, they first took our soil through sorcery. Then they destroyed our state through war. Through this, they reaped our happiness away from us. The soul of our nation now withers as flowers without pollen and as birds without wings. To reclaim the pollen that we have lost, to soar once more with the wings that we have lost, we need war, we need weapons. For that, I am contributing the wage from my labor towards that. War needs men, and for that war I want to raise and give my sons.” “Your wish can only come true if you stop talking,” Salma said with a smile. Rashid's eyes glistened with joy. Freed from the thoughts of the past, she now entered the street where she used to live. The narrow street was lined with collapsed apartments. The buildings that were not yet completely destroyed were wounded with bullet holes—evidence of gunfire between the two sides. Some of the collapsed buildings had been walled up with clothes. Within some of them, families were being raised. These people preferred the solitude of the ruins over living among the crowded camps. Today, unlike most days, the number of armed Israeli soldiers on this street was unusually high, making her feel a peculiar form of anxiety. Salma crossed the street where she had once lived and approached the relief camp. A great crowd was present, with plates in their hands, struggling amongst each other. The aggravating sound of the plates clashing with one another and the raised voices demanding food made Salma feel as if her heart were tearing. “Get it somehow. It seems that even relief supplies won't be coming after this. The Israeli army is blocking even the relief supplies that are coming to us at the border. We don’t know when this problem will be resolved. Until then, only this food will save us. So try to get it quickly somehow,” a middle-aged man told her camp, but Salma didn't have the heart to be among the crowd, begging for food with a plate. Even though she wanted to stay hungry until the problem at the border was over, the faces of Yasin and the elderly Fatima came before her eyes. Because of that, she too stood among the horde, pleading. The more she raised her plate and shouted for food, the more her heart wailed in shame. Usually, she would get wheat, rice, and tahini sauce, but today, she only got one packet of bread. The thought of the very few days three people could survive on the bread haunted her. Her heart yearned for the possibility of someone giving them two more packets of bread. “The kinds of lowly thoughts war subjects a person to. It first seeks to destroy the feelings of self-respect. This is what the Israelis expect from the Palestinians. Even if we die of hunger, it is alright. We should not give in and lose our self-respect,” she decided in her mind. At that moment, she felt as though her husband Rashid was walking by her side. With this thought, she returned to the camp along the street where she had once lived. When Fatima saw Salma's face and the plate she had brought, she said, "This is what they have been longing for for a long time. They may have been annoyed that even when they have taken our lands, homes, and lives, we still have our dignity. So they are trying to starve us to death and bring us to our knees. Ya Allah, is there no end to their brutality?” As she prayed to God, she took a piece of bread from the bag and fed it to Yasin, who was seated next to her. “Salma, you must be hungry too; take some and eat,” Fatima said. “I don’t want it, Ma; you eat it. You haven’t eaten since morning.” “Even if I die without eating, I will be happy. You and Yasin must live on. Our bloodline must not perish but survive for generations.” Her words, again, brought memories of her husband Rashid to her mind. - They survived a week on that bag of bread. Afterward, they wondered how many days can one go on with only water? Fatima's eyesight began to fade. Salma did not even have the strength to walk, so she remained lying down. Suddenly, the sounds of plates began to erupt in the camp. Salma, exhausted from hunger, began to feel a wave of energy spread through her body. On the other end, without any energy at all, Fatima lay on the floor. Salma was terrified that she would die of hunger. Looking at Salma, who had hurriedly come out, the woman in the neighboring tent told her, “Salma, take your pot. They have allowed relief supplies at the border. But the army has closed the street you usually take. They have also put up a warning sign saying, “If you cross, you will be shot.” The relief supplies may run out before you can go around the streets that the army has allowed, so leave immediately.” Salma looked at Fatima's face. Disturbed, Fatima immediately understood the meaning of Salma's gaze. “No… don't go that way!” she said softly but firmly, as hunger laced her voice. But Fatima's life was too important to Salma. She kissed her baby Yasin eagerly on the cheek. In that moment, Yasin felt the scent of motherhood embracing him in his entirety. Considering the need for time and relief, Salma quickly took the plate and left. At the end of the street where she had lived, more than twenty men, women, and children in the camp were hiding behind a wall, watching the army’s movement closely. If they were able to cross onto the lane on the other side of the street, while the army’s watch was relaxed for a few moments, they could reach the relief camp in no time. Their courage to play with death was catalyzed by the truth that in each of their homes, there were people like Fatima, whose lives were being held on by a thread. Salma joined them. Thinking that the army on either end of the street was asleep, they started walking, yet the eyes of one soldier caught them crossing. The alarm that he sounded awakened the other soldiers, and bullets began to rain from their guns. The eyes of the dead that fell remained wide open in thought of the starving. The plates brought to gather relief were splattered with blood. ∎ Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Next Up:

Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. FICTION & POETRY Gaza’s Street Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. Solomon P. The restless Mediterranean water struggles in endless desperation to lift the peace that lies within its ocean depths to meet the shores of Gaza. Humid winds awakened by the waves reach out to the refugee camp residing by its side to wipe away the imprints of tears and blood that weigh on the souls that dwell there. The salted air that once blew through houses undestroyed by bombs, through the babbling smiles of children, through the pranks and joys of its youth, through the resting elders, and through the pleasures of lust between couples now blows through tents filled with withering lives, in search of all that has been lost. Vulnerable to rain, cold, heat, and bombs, the refugee camp consists of hundreds of small tents so closely packed together that even hushed whispers are heard as cataclysmic inconveniences. When rumors of bombings spread, the people of the camp, like anxious flapping birds burrowing within their nests, bury themselves within the smallness of their tents. Through the tent opening, their eyes fearfully watch the skies with intent, as their bodies tremble on the soil. They only come out from hiding, in those fleeting moments when the skies bear no weapons, when only peaceful clouds dwell in the vastness of sunlight. In moments when the fear subsides, the elderly Fatima reminisces about the past. - It was only a few months ago that both her husband Ahmed, who had already lost his left leg, and their son Rashid, were swallowed whole by the bomb’s heat. Afterward, Salma, her young daughter-in-law, and Yasin, her two-year-old grandson, were her only roots of existence. In their small lives within the camp tents, Salma raised her son, shielding him from the memories of his father. Fatima, on the other hand, wanted Salma to be freed from the hauntings of her husband’s death. Yet even when Fatima cared for Salma as a mother, it was difficult for her to unburden the worry that had settled deep within Salma's eyes. “They are giving out relief supplies at the UN office. I will go and get them. Until then, you go speak with folks in the other tents,” Fatima told her daughter-in-law that day. Salma, however, retorted, “You stay at home and take care of Yasin; I will go and get them," and she walked the long journey to get the supplies. The most important reason why Salma went to get the supplies was because it allowed her to walk through the same streets where she had once happily lived with her family. But now, the Israeli army, alleging the presence of “terrorsim” on Gaza’s streets, brought entire roads under their sudden control. In these moments, they prohibited people from traveling that way. Even though the journey was long, Salma knew that to get the relief supplies, this street that they once lived on, was the best shortcut. She knew every nook and cranny of this path. If she travelled through the other streets, it would take her further and longer to reach, and by then the relief supplies would have finished as well. Without walking straight down the road, and using certain alleyways instead, you could reach the relief center easier. It was for this reason, too, that she used this street to travel. Whenever she passed through the alleys, Salma would be consumed by the scent of life that once came from these now desecrated houses. In those moments, blissful memories of her husband spread through her heart. Even when they brought her to tears, she would remember the memories fondly. They made each burdening moment much lighter to endure. Just like her, many people walked barefoot along that narrow, unpaved street. Some even travelled through the alleys, bringing their small children along with them. Yasin would often adamantly grab her scarf, saying, “I’m coming too,” in his babbling innocence, but she would firmly deny him. Salma didn't like the idea of seeing her child among the suffocating crowd, holding up a plate to beg for food. That is why, because she came alone, the three of them shared the relief supplies that were meant for one. - Today, the sun had reached its peak. Even though the scorching heat on the street was taking a toll on her bare feet, she continued walking down the street, bearing the longing that she would soon enter the street where they once lived. Her reminiscing led her mind to what once was. Her husband used to run a small provisions store in front of their house. The residents of the area bought their goods from that shop. They lived a bountiful life, with no shortage of food and necessities. Yet Rashid believed that the happiness of the nation was far greater than the happiness of individual life. He secretly contributed a part of his income to the liberation movement. “I should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that has been made impossible. My son should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that too was made impossible. But my grandson or granddaughter will learn to take their first steps on the soil of a liberated Palestine. Inshallah,” he would ritualistically say to Salma whenever they were alone. “Then why didn't you join the movement?” she once asked. A man drowning in sorrow, he took a deep breath and said, “In my childhood, because a bomb fell on our house, my father lost his left leg. After which my mother started a small shop while also looking after my father and the family. I have no siblings and I am an only child. Hence when I grew up, I had to take on the responsibility of the family. But I will have four or five sons, one for the house and the others for the nation, and for that, I am ready to face any anguish that may come my way.” “You may be ready, but as a mother, how can I sacrifice my children to war?” Salma said, jokingly, yet Rashid's face shrunk at these words. With furrowed skin on his forehead, reddened cheeks, and a depth in his eyes, he spoke. “No, Salma, you have to be prepared for that. Our land, which has lived prosperously for hundreds of years, was taken from us in decades by them. Through the help of imperialist nations, they first took our soil through sorcery. Then they destroyed our state through war. Through this, they reaped our happiness away from us. The soul of our nation now withers as flowers without pollen and as birds without wings. To reclaim the pollen that we have lost, to soar once more with the wings that we have lost, we need war, we need weapons. For that, I am contributing the wage from my labor towards that. War needs men, and for that war I want to raise and give my sons.” “Your wish can only come true if you stop talking,” Salma said with a smile. Rashid's eyes glistened with joy. Freed from the thoughts of the past, she now entered the street where she used to live. The narrow street was lined with collapsed apartments. The buildings that were not yet completely destroyed were wounded with bullet holes—evidence of gunfire between the two sides. Some of the collapsed buildings had been walled up with clothes. Within some of them, families were being raised. These people preferred the solitude of the ruins over living among the crowded camps. Today, unlike most days, the number of armed Israeli soldiers on this street was unusually high, making her feel a peculiar form of anxiety. Salma crossed the street where she had once lived and approached the relief camp. A great crowd was present, with plates in their hands, struggling amongst each other. The aggravating sound of the plates clashing with one another and the raised voices demanding food made Salma feel as if her heart were tearing. “Get it somehow. It seems that even relief supplies won't be coming after this. The Israeli army is blocking even the relief supplies that are coming to us at the border. We don’t know when this problem will be resolved. Until then, only this food will save us. So try to get it quickly somehow,” a middle-aged man told her camp, but Salma didn't have the heart to be among the crowd, begging for food with a plate. Even though she wanted to stay hungry until the problem at the border was over, the faces of Yasin and the elderly Fatima came before her eyes. Because of that, she too stood among the horde, pleading. The more she raised her plate and shouted for food, the more her heart wailed in shame. Usually, she would get wheat, rice, and tahini sauce, but today, she only got one packet of bread. The thought of the very few days three people could survive on the bread haunted her. Her heart yearned for the possibility of someone giving them two more packets of bread. “The kinds of lowly thoughts war subjects a person to. It first seeks to destroy the feelings of self-respect. This is what the Israelis expect from the Palestinians. Even if we die of hunger, it is alright. We should not give in and lose our self-respect,” she decided in her mind. At that moment, she felt as though her husband Rashid was walking by her side. With this thought, she returned to the camp along the street where she had once lived. When Fatima saw Salma's face and the plate she had brought, she said, "This is what they have been longing for for a long time. They may have been annoyed that even when they have taken our lands, homes, and lives, we still have our dignity. So they are trying to starve us to death and bring us to our knees. Ya Allah, is there no end to their brutality?” As she prayed to God, she took a piece of bread from the bag and fed it to Yasin, who was seated next to her. “Salma, you must be hungry too; take some and eat,” Fatima said. “I don’t want it, Ma; you eat it. You haven’t eaten since morning.” “Even if I die without eating, I will be happy. You and Yasin must live on. Our bloodline must not perish but survive for generations.” Her words, again, brought memories of her husband Rashid to her mind. - They survived a week on that bag of bread. Afterward, they wondered how many days can one go on with only water? Fatima's eyesight began to fade. Salma did not even have the strength to walk, so she remained lying down. Suddenly, the sounds of plates began to erupt in the camp. Salma, exhausted from hunger, began to feel a wave of energy spread through her body. On the other end, without any energy at all, Fatima lay on the floor. Salma was terrified that she would die of hunger. Looking at Salma, who had hurriedly come out, the woman in the neighboring tent told her, “Salma, take your pot. They have allowed relief supplies at the border. But the army has closed the street you usually take. They have also put up a warning sign saying, “If you cross, you will be shot.” The relief supplies may run out before you can go around the streets that the army has allowed, so leave immediately.” Salma looked at Fatima's face. Disturbed, Fatima immediately understood the meaning of Salma's gaze. “No… don't go that way!” she said softly but firmly, as hunger laced her voice. But Fatima's life was too important to Salma. She kissed her baby Yasin eagerly on the cheek. In that moment, Yasin felt the scent of motherhood embracing him in his entirety. Considering the need for time and relief, Salma quickly took the plate and left. At the end of the street where she had lived, more than twenty men, women, and children in the camp were hiding behind a wall, watching the army’s movement closely. If they were able to cross onto the lane on the other side of the street, while the army’s watch was relaxed for a few moments, they could reach the relief camp in no time. Their courage to play with death was catalyzed by the truth that in each of their homes, there were people like Fatima, whose lives were being held on by a thread. Salma joined them. Thinking that the army on either end of the street was asleep, they started walking, yet the eyes of one soldier caught them crossing. The alarm that he sounded awakened the other soldiers, and bullets began to rain from their guns. The eyes of the dead that fell remained wide open in thought of the starving. The plates brought to gather relief were splattered with blood. ∎ The restless Mediterranean water struggles in endless desperation to lift the peace that lies within its ocean depths to meet the shores of Gaza. Humid winds awakened by the waves reach out to the refugee camp residing by its side to wipe away the imprints of tears and blood that weigh on the souls that dwell there. The salted air that once blew through houses undestroyed by bombs, through the babbling smiles of children, through the pranks and joys of its youth, through the resting elders, and through the pleasures of lust between couples now blows through tents filled with withering lives, in search of all that has been lost. Vulnerable to rain, cold, heat, and bombs, the refugee camp consists of hundreds of small tents so closely packed together that even hushed whispers are heard as cataclysmic inconveniences. When rumors of bombings spread, the people of the camp, like anxious flapping birds burrowing within their nests, bury themselves within the smallness of their tents. Through the tent opening, their eyes fearfully watch the skies with intent, as their bodies tremble on the soil. They only come out from hiding, in those fleeting moments when the skies bear no weapons, when only peaceful clouds dwell in the vastness of sunlight. In moments when the fear subsides, the elderly Fatima reminisces about the past. - It was only a few months ago that both her husband Ahmed, who had already lost his left leg, and their son Rashid, were swallowed whole by the bomb’s heat. Afterward, Salma, her young daughter-in-law, and Yasin, her two-year-old grandson, were her only roots of existence. In their small lives within the camp tents, Salma raised her son, shielding him from the memories of his father. Fatima, on the other hand, wanted Salma to be freed from the hauntings of her husband’s death. Yet even when Fatima cared for Salma as a mother, it was difficult for her to unburden the worry that had settled deep within Salma's eyes. “They are giving out relief supplies at the UN office. I will go and get them. Until then, you go speak with folks in the other tents,” Fatima told her daughter-in-law that day. Salma, however, retorted, “You stay at home and take care of Yasin; I will go and get them," and she walked the long journey to get the supplies. The most important reason why Salma went to get the supplies was because it allowed her to walk through the same streets where she had once happily lived with her family. But now, the Israeli army, alleging the presence of “terrorsim” on Gaza’s streets, brought entire roads under their sudden control. In these moments, they prohibited people from traveling that way. Even though the journey was long, Salma knew that to get the relief supplies, this street that they once lived on, was the best shortcut. She knew every nook and cranny of this path. If she travelled through the other streets, it would take her further and longer to reach, and by then the relief supplies would have finished as well. Without walking straight down the road, and using certain alleyways instead, you could reach the relief center easier. It was for this reason, too, that she used this street to travel. Whenever she passed through the alleys, Salma would be consumed by the scent of life that once came from these now desecrated houses. In those moments, blissful memories of her husband spread through her heart. Even when they brought her to tears, she would remember the memories fondly. They made each burdening moment much lighter to endure. Just like her, many people walked barefoot along that narrow, unpaved street. Some even travelled through the alleys, bringing their small children along with them. Yasin would often adamantly grab her scarf, saying, “I’m coming too,” in his babbling innocence, but she would firmly deny him. Salma didn't like the idea of seeing her child among the suffocating crowd, holding up a plate to beg for food. That is why, because she came alone, the three of them shared the relief supplies that were meant for one. - Today, the sun had reached its peak. Even though the scorching heat on the street was taking a toll on her bare feet, she continued walking down the street, bearing the longing that she would soon enter the street where they once lived. Her reminiscing led her mind to what once was. Her husband used to run a small provisions store in front of their house. The residents of the area bought their goods from that shop. They lived a bountiful life, with no shortage of food and necessities. Yet Rashid believed that the happiness of the nation was far greater than the happiness of individual life. He secretly contributed a part of his income to the liberation movement. “I should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that has been made impossible. My son should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that too was made impossible. But my grandson or granddaughter will learn to take their first steps on the soil of a liberated Palestine. Inshallah,” he would ritualistically say to Salma whenever they were alone. “Then why didn't you join the movement?” she once asked. A man drowning in sorrow, he took a deep breath and said, “In my childhood, because a bomb fell on our house, my father lost his left leg. After which my mother started a small shop while also looking after my father and the family. I have no siblings and I am an only child. Hence when I grew up, I had to take on the responsibility of the family. But I will have four or five sons, one for the house and the others for the nation, and for that, I am ready to face any anguish that may come my way.” “You may be ready, but as a mother, how can I sacrifice my children to war?” Salma said, jokingly, yet Rashid's face shrunk at these words. With furrowed skin on his forehead, reddened cheeks, and a depth in his eyes, he spoke. “No, Salma, you have to be prepared for that. Our land, which has lived prosperously for hundreds of years, was taken from us in decades by them. Through the help of imperialist nations, they first took our soil through sorcery. Then they destroyed our state through war. Through this, they reaped our happiness away from us. The soul of our nation now withers as flowers without pollen and as birds without wings. To reclaim the pollen that we have lost, to soar once more with the wings that we have lost, we need war, we need weapons. For that, I am contributing the wage from my labor towards that. War needs men, and for that war I want to raise and give my sons.” “Your wish can only come true if you stop talking,” Salma said with a smile. Rashid's eyes glistened with joy. Freed from the thoughts of the past, she now entered the street where she used to live. The narrow street was lined with collapsed apartments. The buildings that were not yet completely destroyed were wounded with bullet holes—evidence of gunfire between the two sides. Some of the collapsed buildings had been walled up with clothes. Within some of them, families were being raised. These people preferred the solitude of the ruins over living among the crowded camps. Today, unlike most days, the number of armed Israeli soldiers on this street was unusually high, making her feel a peculiar form of anxiety. Salma crossed the street where she had once lived and approached the relief camp. A great crowd was present, with plates in their hands, struggling amongst each other. The aggravating sound of the plates clashing with one another and the raised voices demanding food made Salma feel as if her heart were tearing. “Get it somehow. It seems that even relief supplies won't be coming after this. The Israeli army is blocking even the relief supplies that are coming to us at the border. We don’t know when this problem will be resolved. Until then, only this food will save us. So try to get it quickly somehow,” a middle-aged man told her camp, but Salma didn't have the heart to be among the crowd, begging for food with a plate. Even though she wanted to stay hungry until the problem at the border was over, the faces of Yasin and the elderly Fatima came before her eyes. Because of that, she too stood among the horde, pleading. The more she raised her plate and shouted for food, the more her heart wailed in shame. Usually, she would get wheat, rice, and tahini sauce, but today, she only got one packet of bread. The thought of the very few days three people could survive on the bread haunted her. Her heart yearned for the possibility of someone giving them two more packets of bread. “The kinds of lowly thoughts war subjects a person to. It first seeks to destroy the feelings of self-respect. This is what the Israelis expect from the Palestinians. Even if we die of hunger, it is alright. We should not give in and lose our self-respect,” she decided in her mind. At that moment, she felt as though her husband Rashid was walking by her side. With this thought, she returned to the camp along the street where she had once lived. When Fatima saw Salma's face and the plate she had brought, she said, "This is what they have been longing for for a long time. They may have been annoyed that even when they have taken our lands, homes, and lives, we still have our dignity. So they are trying to starve us to death and bring us to our knees. Ya Allah, is there no end to their brutality?” As she prayed to God, she took a piece of bread from the bag and fed it to Yasin, who was seated next to her. “Salma, you must be hungry too; take some and eat,” Fatima said. “I don’t want it, Ma; you eat it. You haven’t eaten since morning.” “Even if I die without eating, I will be happy. You and Yasin must live on. Our bloodline must not perish but survive for generations.” Her words, again, brought memories of her husband Rashid to her mind. - They survived a week on that bag of bread. Afterward, they wondered how many days can one go on with only water? Fatima's eyesight began to fade. Salma did not even have the strength to walk, so she remained lying down. Suddenly, the sounds of plates began to erupt in the camp. Salma, exhausted from hunger, began to feel a wave of energy spread through her body. On the other end, without any energy at all, Fatima lay on the floor. Salma was terrified that she would die of hunger. Looking at Salma, who had hurriedly come out, the woman in the neighboring tent told her, “Salma, take your pot. They have allowed relief supplies at the border. But the army has closed the street you usually take. They have also put up a warning sign saying, “If you cross, you will be shot.” The relief supplies may run out before you can go around the streets that the army has allowed, so leave immediately.” Salma looked at Fatima's face. Disturbed, Fatima immediately understood the meaning of Salma's gaze. “No… don't go that way!” she said softly but firmly, as hunger laced her voice. But Fatima's life was too important to Salma. She kissed her baby Yasin eagerly on the cheek. In that moment, Yasin felt the scent of motherhood embracing him in his entirety. Considering the need for time and relief, Salma quickly took the plate and left. At the end of the street where she had lived, more than twenty men, women, and children in the camp were hiding behind a wall, watching the army’s movement closely. If they were able to cross onto the lane on the other side of the street, while the army’s watch was relaxed for a few moments, they could reach the relief camp in no time. Their courage to play with death was catalyzed by the truth that in each of their homes, there were people like Fatima, whose lives were being held on by a thread. Salma joined them. Thinking that the army on either end of the street was asleep, they started walking, yet the eyes of one soldier caught them crossing. The alarm that he sounded awakened the other soldiers, and bullets began to rain from their guns. The eyes of the dead that fell remained wide open in thought of the starving. The plates brought to gather relief were splattered with blood. ∎ SUB-HEAD Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: Clare Patrick (Our) Worlds and (Plant) Wisdoms Kareen Adam · Nazish Chunara A Dhivehi Artists Showcase Photographer unknown. Wild peppergrass (L. chalepense L. ), ca. 1900–20, from Wild Flowers of Palestine . Source: Library of Congress SHARE Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Gaza Palestine Tamil Fiction Solidarity Short Story India Genocide Solomon P. is a writer who has authored two novels: "Vasanthaththai Thedi" (“In Search of Spring”) and "Puzhal Sirai" (“Puzhal Prison”). His political essays have been published in Tamil print media. He is also a social activist. In his youth, he directly witnessed and experienced caste atrocities. For more than twenty years, he has been actively involved in anti-caste and democratic movements. As a result, he has endured many instances of police brutality. He has consistently raised his voice in Tamil Nadu’s public sphere in support of both Palestinian liberation and Tamil Eelam independence, working alongside democratic forces. 24 Jun 2026 Gaza Palestine 24th Jun 2026 The Tortured Roof Vrinda Jagota 2nd May Occupation and Osmosis Ryan Biller 26th Oct Food Organizing at Columbia's Gaza Encampment Surina Venkat 24th Sep What Does Solidarity Mean? Azad Essa · Heba Gowayed · Tehila Sasson · Suchitra Vijayan 8th Apr Zohran Kwame Mamdani on Palestine in 2021 Zohran Kwame Mamdani 5th Jun On That Note:

Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. FICTION & POETRY Gaza’s Street Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. GENERAL GAZA AUTHOR AUTHOR AUTHOR Photographer unknown. Wild peppergrass (L. chalepense L. ), ca. 1900–20, from Wild Flowers of Palestine . Source: Library of Congress ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Photographer unknown. Wild peppergrass (L. chalepense L. ), ca. 1900–20, from Wild Flowers of Palestine . Source: Library of Congress SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Gaza Palestine 24th Jun 2026 Gaza Palestine Tamil Fiction Solidarity Short Story India Genocide Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. The restless Mediterranean water struggles in endless desperation to lift the peace that lies within its ocean depths to meet the shores of Gaza. Humid winds awakened by the waves reach out to the refugee camp residing by its side to wipe away the imprints of tears and blood that weigh on the souls that dwell there. The salted air that once blew through houses undestroyed by bombs, through the babbling smiles of children, through the pranks and joys of its youth, through the resting elders, and through the pleasures of lust between couples now blows through tents filled with withering lives, in search of all that has been lost. Vulnerable to rain, cold, heat, and bombs, the refugee camp consists of hundreds of small tents so closely packed together that even hushed whispers are heard as cataclysmic inconveniences. When rumors of bombings spread, the people of the camp, like anxious flapping birds burrowing within their nests, bury themselves within the smallness of their tents. Through the tent opening, their eyes fearfully watch the skies with intent, as their bodies tremble on the soil. They only come out from hiding, in those fleeting moments when the skies bear no weapons, when only peaceful clouds dwell in the vastness of sunlight. In moments when the fear subsides, the elderly Fatima reminisces about the past. - It was only a few months ago that both her husband Ahmed, who had already lost his left leg, and their son Rashid, were swallowed whole by the bomb’s heat. Afterward, Salma, her young daughter-in-law, and Yasin, her two-year-old grandson, were her only roots of existence. In their small lives within the camp tents, Salma raised her son, shielding him from the memories of his father. Fatima, on the other hand, wanted Salma to be freed from the hauntings of her husband’s death. Yet even when Fatima cared for Salma as a mother, it was difficult for her to unburden the worry that had settled deep within Salma's eyes. “They are giving out relief supplies at the UN office. I will go and get them. Until then, you go speak with folks in the other tents,” Fatima told her daughter-in-law that day. Salma, however, retorted, “You stay at home and take care of Yasin; I will go and get them," and she walked the long journey to get the supplies. The most important reason why Salma went to get the supplies was because it allowed her to walk through the same streets where she had once happily lived with her family. But now, the Israeli army, alleging the presence of “terrorsim” on Gaza’s streets, brought entire roads under their sudden control. In these moments, they prohibited people from traveling that way. Even though the journey was long, Salma knew that to get the relief supplies, this street that they once lived on, was the best shortcut. She knew every nook and cranny of this path. If she travelled through the other streets, it would take her further and longer to reach, and by then the relief supplies would have finished as well. Without walking straight down the road, and using certain alleyways instead, you could reach the relief center easier. It was for this reason, too, that she used this street to travel. Whenever she passed through the alleys, Salma would be consumed by the scent of life that once came from these now desecrated houses. In those moments, blissful memories of her husband spread through her heart. Even when they brought her to tears, she would remember the memories fondly. They made each burdening moment much lighter to endure. Just like her, many people walked barefoot along that narrow, unpaved street. Some even travelled through the alleys, bringing their small children along with them. Yasin would often adamantly grab her scarf, saying, “I’m coming too,” in his babbling innocence, but she would firmly deny him. Salma didn't like the idea of seeing her child among the suffocating crowd, holding up a plate to beg for food. That is why, because she came alone, the three of them shared the relief supplies that were meant for one. - Today, the sun had reached its peak. Even though the scorching heat on the street was taking a toll on her bare feet, she continued walking down the street, bearing the longing that she would soon enter the street where they once lived. Her reminiscing led her mind to what once was. Her husband used to run a small provisions store in front of their house. The residents of the area bought their goods from that shop. They lived a bountiful life, with no shortage of food and necessities. Yet Rashid believed that the happiness of the nation was far greater than the happiness of individual life. He secretly contributed a part of his income to the liberation movement. “I should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that has been made impossible. My son should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that too was made impossible. But my grandson or granddaughter will learn to take their first steps on the soil of a liberated Palestine. Inshallah,” he would ritualistically say to Salma whenever they were alone. “Then why didn't you join the movement?” she once asked. A man drowning in sorrow, he took a deep breath and said, “In my childhood, because a bomb fell on our house, my father lost his left leg. After which my mother started a small shop while also looking after my father and the family. I have no siblings and I am an only child. Hence when I grew up, I had to take on the responsibility of the family. But I will have four or five sons, one for the house and the others for the nation, and for that, I am ready to face any anguish that may come my way.” “You may be ready, but as a mother, how can I sacrifice my children to war?” Salma said, jokingly, yet Rashid's face shrunk at these words. With furrowed skin on his forehead, reddened cheeks, and a depth in his eyes, he spoke. “No, Salma, you have to be prepared for that. Our land, which has lived prosperously for hundreds of years, was taken from us in decades by them. Through the help of imperialist nations, they first took our soil through sorcery. Then they destroyed our state through war. Through this, they reaped our happiness away from us. The soul of our nation now withers as flowers without pollen and as birds without wings. To reclaim the pollen that we have lost, to soar once more with the wings that we have lost, we need war, we need weapons. For that, I am contributing the wage from my labor towards that. War needs men, and for that war I want to raise and give my sons.” “Your wish can only come true if you stop talking,” Salma said with a smile. Rashid's eyes glistened with joy. Freed from the thoughts of the past, she now entered the street where she used to live. The narrow street was lined with collapsed apartments. The buildings that were not yet completely destroyed were wounded with bullet holes—evidence of gunfire between the two sides. Some of the collapsed buildings had been walled up with clothes. Within some of them, families were being raised. These people preferred the solitude of the ruins over living among the crowded camps. Today, unlike most days, the number of armed Israeli soldiers on this street was unusually high, making her feel a peculiar form of anxiety. Salma crossed the street where she had once lived and approached the relief camp. A great crowd was present, with plates in their hands, struggling amongst each other. The aggravating sound of the plates clashing with one another and the raised voices demanding food made Salma feel as if her heart were tearing. “Get it somehow. It seems that even relief supplies won't be coming after this. The Israeli army is blocking even the relief supplies that are coming to us at the border. We don’t know when this problem will be resolved. Until then, only this food will save us. So try to get it quickly somehow,” a middle-aged man told her camp, but Salma didn't have the heart to be among the crowd, begging for food with a plate. Even though she wanted to stay hungry until the problem at the border was over, the faces of Yasin and the elderly Fatima came before her eyes. Because of that, she too stood among the horde, pleading. The more she raised her plate and shouted for food, the more her heart wailed in shame. Usually, she would get wheat, rice, and tahini sauce, but today, she only got one packet of bread. The thought of the very few days three people could survive on the bread haunted her. Her heart yearned for the possibility of someone giving them two more packets of bread. “The kinds of lowly thoughts war subjects a person to. It first seeks to destroy the feelings of self-respect. This is what the Israelis expect from the Palestinians. Even if we die of hunger, it is alright. We should not give in and lose our self-respect,” she decided in her mind. At that moment, she felt as though her husband Rashid was walking by her side. With this thought, she returned to the camp along the street where she had once lived. When Fatima saw Salma's face and the plate she had brought, she said, "This is what they have been longing for for a long time. They may have been annoyed that even when they have taken our lands, homes, and lives, we still have our dignity. So they are trying to starve us to death and bring us to our knees. Ya Allah, is there no end to their brutality?” As she prayed to God, she took a piece of bread from the bag and fed it to Yasin, who was seated next to her. “Salma, you must be hungry too; take some and eat,” Fatima said. “I don’t want it, Ma; you eat it. You haven’t eaten since morning.” “Even if I die without eating, I will be happy. You and Yasin must live on. Our bloodline must not perish but survive for generations.” Her words, again, brought memories of her husband Rashid to her mind. - They survived a week on that bag of bread. Afterward, they wondered how many days can one go on with only water? Fatima's eyesight began to fade. Salma did not even have the strength to walk, so she remained lying down. Suddenly, the sounds of plates began to erupt in the camp. Salma, exhausted from hunger, began to feel a wave of energy spread through her body. On the other end, without any energy at all, Fatima lay on the floor. Salma was terrified that she would die of hunger. Looking at Salma, who had hurriedly come out, the woman in the neighboring tent told her, “Salma, take your pot. They have allowed relief supplies at the border. But the army has closed the street you usually take. They have also put up a warning sign saying, “If you cross, you will be shot.” The relief supplies may run out before you can go around the streets that the army has allowed, so leave immediately.” Salma looked at Fatima's face. Disturbed, Fatima immediately understood the meaning of Salma's gaze. “No… don't go that way!” she said softly but firmly, as hunger laced her voice. But Fatima's life was too important to Salma. She kissed her baby Yasin eagerly on the cheek. In that moment, Yasin felt the scent of motherhood embracing him in his entirety. Considering the need for time and relief, Salma quickly took the plate and left. At the end of the street where she had lived, more than twenty men, women, and children in the camp were hiding behind a wall, watching the army’s movement closely. If they were able to cross onto the lane on the other side of the street, while the army’s watch was relaxed for a few moments, they could reach the relief camp in no time. Their courage to play with death was catalyzed by the truth that in each of their homes, there were people like Fatima, whose lives were being held on by a thread. Salma joined them. Thinking that the army on either end of the street was asleep, they started walking, yet the eyes of one soldier caught them crossing. The alarm that he sounded awakened the other soldiers, and bullets began to rain from their guns. The eyes of the dead that fell remained wide open in thought of the starving. The plates brought to gather relief were splattered with blood. ∎ More Fiction & Poetry: Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5 Date Authors Heading 5

Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. | · FICTION & POETRY Gaza · Palestine Gaza’s Street Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. Photographer unknown. Wild peppergrass (L. chalepense L. ), ca. 1900–20, from Wild Flowers of Palestine . Source: Library of Congress The restless Mediterranean water struggles in endless desperation to lift the peace that lies within its ocean depths to meet the shores of Gaza. Humid winds awakened by the waves reach out to the refugee camp residing by its side to wipe away the imprints of tears and blood that weigh on the souls that dwell there. The salted air that once blew through houses undestroyed by bombs, through the babbling smiles of children, through the pranks and joys of its youth, through the resting elders, and through the pleasures of lust between couples now blows through tents filled with withering lives, in search of all that has been lost. Vulnerable to rain, cold, heat, and bombs, the refugee camp consists of hundreds of small tents so closely packed together that even hushed whispers are heard as cataclysmic inconveniences. When rumors of bombings spread, the people of the camp, like anxious flapping birds burrowing within their nests, bury themselves within the smallness of their tents. Through the tent opening, their eyes fearfully watch the skies with intent, as their bodies tremble on the soil. They only come out from hiding, in those fleeting moments when the skies bear no weapons, when only peaceful clouds dwell in the vastness of sunlight. In moments when the fear subsides, the elderly Fatima reminisces about the past. - It was only a few months ago that both her husband Ahmed, who had already lost his left leg, and their son Rashid, were swallowed whole by the bomb’s heat. Afterward, Salma, her young daughter-in-law, and Yasin, her two-year-old grandson, were her only roots of existence. In their small lives within the camp tents, Salma raised her son, shielding him from the memories of his father. Fatima, on the other hand, wanted Salma to be freed from the hauntings of her husband’s death. Yet even when Fatima cared for Salma as a mother, it was difficult for her to unburden the worry that had settled deep within Salma's eyes. “They are giving out relief supplies at the UN office. I will go and get them. Until then, you go speak with folks in the other tents,” Fatima told her daughter-in-law that day. Salma, however, retorted, “You stay at home and take care of Yasin; I will go and get them," and she walked the long journey to get the supplies. The most important reason why Salma went to get the supplies was because it allowed her to walk through the same streets where she had once happily lived with her family. But now, the Israeli army, alleging the presence of “terrorsim” on Gaza’s streets, brought entire roads under their sudden control. In these moments, they prohibited people from traveling that way. Even though the journey was long, Salma knew that to get the relief supplies, this street that they once lived on, was the best shortcut. She knew every nook and cranny of this path. If she travelled through the other streets, it would take her further and longer to reach, and by then the relief supplies would have finished as well. Without walking straight down the road, and using certain alleyways instead, you could reach the relief center easier. It was for this reason, too, that she used this street to travel. Whenever she passed through the alleys, Salma would be consumed by the scent of life that once came from these now desecrated houses. In those moments, blissful memories of her husband spread through her heart. Even when they brought her to tears, she would remember the memories fondly. They made each burdening moment much lighter to endure. Just like her, many people walked barefoot along that narrow, unpaved street. Some even travelled through the alleys, bringing their small children along with them. Yasin would often adamantly grab her scarf, saying, “I’m coming too,” in his babbling innocence, but she would firmly deny him. Salma didn't like the idea of seeing her child among the suffocating crowd, holding up a plate to beg for food. That is why, because she came alone, the three of them shared the relief supplies that were meant for one. - Today, the sun had reached its peak. Even though the scorching heat on the street was taking a toll on her bare feet, she continued walking down the street, bearing the longing that she would soon enter the street where they once lived. Her reminiscing led her mind to what once was. Her husband used to run a small provisions store in front of their house. The residents of the area bought their goods from that shop. They lived a bountiful life, with no shortage of food and necessities. Yet Rashid believed that the happiness of the nation was far greater than the happiness of individual life. He secretly contributed a part of his income to the liberation movement. “I should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that has been made impossible. My son should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that too was made impossible. But my grandson or granddaughter will learn to take their first steps on the soil of a liberated Palestine. Inshallah,” he would ritualistically say to Salma whenever they were alone. “Then why didn't you join the movement?” she once asked. A man drowning in sorrow, he took a deep breath and said, “In my childhood, because a bomb fell on our house, my father lost his left leg. After which my mother started a small shop while also looking after my father and the family. I have no siblings and I am an only child. Hence when I grew up, I had to take on the responsibility of the family. But I will have four or five sons, one for the house and the others for the nation, and for that, I am ready to face any anguish that may come my way.” “You may be ready, but as a mother, how can I sacrifice my children to war?” Salma said, jokingly, yet Rashid's face shrunk at these words. With furrowed skin on his forehead, reddened cheeks, and a depth in his eyes, he spoke. “No, Salma, you have to be prepared for that. Our land, which has lived prosperously for hundreds of years, was taken from us in decades by them. Through the help of imperialist nations, they first took our soil through sorcery. Then they destroyed our state through war. Through this, they reaped our happiness away from us. The soul of our nation now withers as flowers without pollen and as birds without wings. To reclaim the pollen that we have lost, to soar once more with the wings that we have lost, we need war, we need weapons. For that, I am contributing the wage from my labor towards that. War needs men, and for that war I want to raise and give my sons.” “Your wish can only come true if you stop talking,” Salma said with a smile. Rashid's eyes glistened with joy. Freed from the thoughts of the past, she now entered the street where she used to live. The narrow street was lined with collapsed apartments. The buildings that were not yet completely destroyed were wounded with bullet holes—evidence of gunfire between the two sides. Some of the collapsed buildings had been walled up with clothes. Within some of them, families were being raised. These people preferred the solitude of the ruins over living among the crowded camps. Today, unlike most days, the number of armed Israeli soldiers on this street was unusually high, making her feel a peculiar form of anxiety. Salma crossed the street where she had once lived and approached the relief camp. A great crowd was present, with plates in their hands, struggling amongst each other. The aggravating sound of the plates clashing with one another and the raised voices demanding food made Salma feel as if her heart were tearing. “Get it somehow. It seems that even relief supplies won't be coming after this. The Israeli army is blocking even the relief supplies that are coming to us at the border. We don’t know when this problem will be resolved. Until then, only this food will save us. So try to get it quickly somehow,” a middle-aged man told her camp, but Salma didn't have the heart to be among the crowd, begging for food with a plate. Even though she wanted to stay hungry until the problem at the border was over, the faces of Yasin and the elderly Fatima came before her eyes. Because of that, she too stood among the horde, pleading. The more she raised her plate and shouted for food, the more her heart wailed in shame. Usually, she would get wheat, rice, and tahini sauce, but today, she only got one packet of bread. The thought of the very few days three people could survive on the bread haunted her. Her heart yearned for the possibility of someone giving them two more packets of bread. “The kinds of lowly thoughts war subjects a person to. It first seeks to destroy the feelings of self-respect. This is what the Israelis expect from the Palestinians. Even if we die of hunger, it is alright. We should not give in and lose our self-respect,” she decided in her mind. At that moment, she felt as though her husband Rashid was walking by her side. With this thought, she returned to the camp along the street where she had once lived. When Fatima saw Salma's face and the plate she had brought, she said, "This is what they have been longing for for a long time. They may have been annoyed that even when they have taken our lands, homes, and lives, we still have our dignity. So they are trying to starve us to death and bring us to our knees. Ya Allah, is there no end to their brutality?” As she prayed to God, she took a piece of bread from the bag and fed it to Yasin, who was seated next to her. “Salma, you must be hungry too; take some and eat,” Fatima said. “I don’t want it, Ma; you eat it. You haven’t eaten since morning.” “Even if I die without eating, I will be happy. You and Yasin must live on. Our bloodline must not perish but survive for generations.” Her words, again, brought memories of her husband Rashid to her mind. - They survived a week on that bag of bread. Afterward, they wondered how many days can one go on with only water? Fatima's eyesight began to fade. Salma did not even have the strength to walk, so she remained lying down. Suddenly, the sounds of plates began to erupt in the camp. Salma, exhausted from hunger, began to feel a wave of energy spread through her body. On the other end, without any energy at all, Fatima lay on the floor. Salma was terrified that she would die of hunger. Looking at Salma, who had hurriedly come out, the woman in the neighboring tent told her, “Salma, take your pot. They have allowed relief supplies at the border. But the army has closed the street you usually take. They have also put up a warning sign saying, “If you cross, you will be shot.” The relief supplies may run out before you can go around the streets that the army has allowed, so leave immediately.” Salma looked at Fatima's face. Disturbed, Fatima immediately understood the meaning of Salma's gaze. “No… don't go that way!” she said softly but firmly, as hunger laced her voice. But Fatima's life was too important to Salma. She kissed her baby Yasin eagerly on the cheek. In that moment, Yasin felt the scent of motherhood embracing him in his entirety. Considering the need for time and relief, Salma quickly took the plate and left. At the end of the street where she had lived, more than twenty men, women, and children in the camp were hiding behind a wall, watching the army’s movement closely. If they were able to cross onto the lane on the other side of the street, while the army’s watch was relaxed for a few moments, they could reach the relief camp in no time. Their courage to play with death was catalyzed by the truth that in each of their homes, there were people like Fatima, whose lives were being held on by a thread. Salma joined them. Thinking that the army on either end of the street was asleep, they started walking, yet the eyes of one soldier caught them crossing. The alarm that he sounded awakened the other soldiers, and bullets began to rain from their guns. The eyes of the dead that fell remained wide open in thought of the starving. The plates brought to gather relief were splattered with blood. ∎ SUB-HEAD Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Gaza Palestine Tamil Fiction Solidarity Short Story India Genocide Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. You can update and reuse text themes. 24th Jun 2026 AUTHOR · AUTHOR Facebook Twitter LinkedIn Add paragraph text. Click “Edit Text” to customize this theme across your site. 1 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 6 On That Note:

Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. FICTION & POETRY Gaza’s Street Solomon P. Through this short work of fiction, a Tamil writer extends solidarity to Gaza, bringing to light the torment and suffering of ordinary lives during genocide. The restless Mediterranean water struggles in endless desperation to lift the peace that lies within its ocean depths to meet the shores of Gaza. Humid winds awakened by the waves reach out to the refugee camp residing by its side to wipe away the imprints of tears and blood that weigh on the souls that dwell there. The salted air that once blew through houses undestroyed by bombs, through the babbling smiles of children, through the pranks and joys of its youth, through the resting elders, and through the pleasures of lust between couples now blows through tents filled with withering lives, in search of all that has been lost. Vulnerable to rain, cold, heat, and bombs, the refugee camp consists of hundreds of small tents so closely packed together that even hushed whispers are heard as cataclysmic inconveniences. When rumors of bombings spread, the people of the camp, like anxious flapping birds burrowing within their nests, bury themselves within the smallness of their tents. Through the tent opening, their eyes fearfully watch the skies with intent, as their bodies tremble on the soil. They only come out from hiding, in those fleeting moments when the skies bear no weapons, when only peaceful clouds dwell in the vastness of sunlight. In moments when the fear subsides, the elderly Fatima reminisces about the past. - It was only a few months ago that both her husband Ahmed, who had already lost his left leg, and their son Rashid, were swallowed whole by the bomb’s heat. Afterward, Salma, her young daughter-in-law, and Yasin, her two-year-old grandson, were her only roots of existence. In their small lives within the camp tents, Salma raised her son, shielding him from the memories of his father. Fatima, on the other hand, wanted Salma to be freed from the hauntings of her husband’s death. Yet even when Fatima cared for Salma as a mother, it was difficult for her to unburden the worry that had settled deep within Salma's eyes. “They are giving out relief supplies at the UN office. I will go and get them. Until then, you go speak with folks in the other tents,” Fatima told her daughter-in-law that day. Salma, however, retorted, “You stay at home and take care of Yasin; I will go and get them," and she walked the long journey to get the supplies. The most important reason why Salma went to get the supplies was because it allowed her to walk through the same streets where she had once happily lived with her family. But now, the Israeli army, alleging the presence of “terrorsim” on Gaza’s streets, brought entire roads under their sudden control. In these moments, they prohibited people from traveling that way. Even though the journey was long, Salma knew that to get the relief supplies, this street that they once lived on, was the best shortcut. She knew every nook and cranny of this path. If she travelled through the other streets, it would take her further and longer to reach, and by then the relief supplies would have finished as well. Without walking straight down the road, and using certain alleyways instead, you could reach the relief center easier. It was for this reason, too, that she used this street to travel. Whenever she passed through the alleys, Salma would be consumed by the scent of life that once came from these now desecrated houses. In those moments, blissful memories of her husband spread through her heart. Even when they brought her to tears, she would remember the memories fondly. They made each burdening moment much lighter to endure. Just like her, many people walked barefoot along that narrow, unpaved street. Some even travelled through the alleys, bringing their small children along with them. Yasin would often adamantly grab her scarf, saying, “I’m coming too,” in his babbling innocence, but she would firmly deny him. Salma didn't like the idea of seeing her child among the suffocating crowd, holding up a plate to beg for food. That is why, because she came alone, the three of them shared the relief supplies that were meant for one. - Today, the sun had reached its peak. Even though the scorching heat on the street was taking a toll on her bare feet, she continued walking down the street, bearing the longing that she would soon enter the street where they once lived. Her reminiscing led her mind to what once was. Her husband used to run a small provisions store in front of their house. The residents of the area bought their goods from that shop. They lived a bountiful life, with no shortage of food and necessities. Yet Rashid believed that the happiness of the nation was far greater than the happiness of individual life. He secretly contributed a part of his income to the liberation movement. “I should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that has been made impossible. My son should have been born in a liberated Palestine, but that too was made impossible. But my grandson or granddaughter will learn to take their first steps on the soil of a liberated Palestine. Inshallah,” he would ritualistically say to Salma whenever they were alone. “Then why didn't you join the movement?” she once asked. A man drowning in sorrow, he took a deep breath and said, “In my childhood, because a bomb fell on our house, my father lost his left leg. After which my mother started a small shop while also looking after my father and the family. I have no siblings and I am an only child. Hence when I grew up, I had to take on the responsibility of the family. But I will have four or five sons, one for the house and the others for the nation, and for that, I am ready to face any anguish that may come my way.” “You may be ready, but as a mother, how can I sacrifice my children to war?” Salma said, jokingly, yet Rashid's face shrunk at these words. With furrowed skin on his forehead, reddened cheeks, and a depth in his eyes, he spoke. “No, Salma, you have to be prepared for that. Our land, which has lived prosperously for hundreds of years, was taken from us in decades by them. Through the help of imperialist nations, they first took our soil through sorcery. Then they destroyed our state through war. Through this, they reaped our happiness away from us. The soul of our nation now withers as flowers without pollen and as birds without wings. To reclaim the pollen that we have lost, to soar once more with the wings that we have lost, we need war, we need weapons. For that, I am contributing the wage from my labor towards that. War needs men, and for that war I want to raise and give my sons.” “Your wish can only come true if you stop talking,” Salma said with a smile. Rashid's eyes glistened with joy. Freed from the thoughts of the past, she now entered the street where she used to live. The narrow street was lined with collapsed apartments. The buildings that were not yet completely destroyed were wounded with bullet holes—evidence of gunfire between the two sides. Some of the collapsed buildings had been walled up with clothes. Within some of them, families were being raised. These people preferred the solitude of the ruins over living among the crowded camps. Today, unlike most days, the number of armed Israeli soldiers on this street was unusually high, making her feel a peculiar form of anxiety. Salma crossed the street where she had once lived and approached the relief camp. A great crowd was present, with plates in their hands, struggling amongst each other. The aggravating sound of the plates clashing with one another and the raised voices demanding food made Salma feel as if her heart were tearing. “Get it somehow. It seems that even relief supplies won't be coming after this. The Israeli army is blocking even the relief supplies that are coming to us at the border. We don’t know when this problem will be resolved. Until then, only this food will save us. So try to get it quickly somehow,” a middle-aged man told her camp, but Salma didn't have the heart to be among the crowd, begging for food with a plate. Even though she wanted to stay hungry until the problem at the border was over, the faces of Yasin and the elderly Fatima came before her eyes. Because of that, she too stood among the horde, pleading. The more she raised her plate and shouted for food, the more her heart wailed in shame. Usually, she would get wheat, rice, and tahini sauce, but today, she only got one packet of bread. The thought of the very few days three people could survive on the bread haunted her. Her heart yearned for the possibility of someone giving them two more packets of bread. “The kinds of lowly thoughts war subjects a person to. It first seeks to destroy the feelings of self-respect. This is what the Israelis expect from the Palestinians. Even if we die of hunger, it is alright. We should not give in and lose our self-respect,” she decided in her mind. At that moment, she felt as though her husband Rashid was walking by her side. With this thought, she returned to the camp along the street where she had once lived. When Fatima saw Salma's face and the plate she had brought, she said, "This is what they have been longing for for a long time. They may have been annoyed that even when they have taken our lands, homes, and lives, we still have our dignity. So they are trying to starve us to death and bring us to our knees. Ya Allah, is there no end to their brutality?” As she prayed to God, she took a piece of bread from the bag and fed it to Yasin, who was seated next to her. “Salma, you must be hungry too; take some and eat,” Fatima said. “I don’t want it, Ma; you eat it. You haven’t eaten since morning.” “Even if I die without eating, I will be happy. You and Yasin must live on. Our bloodline must not perish but survive for generations.” Her words, again, brought memories of her husband Rashid to her mind. - They survived a week on that bag of bread. Afterward, they wondered how many days can one go on with only water? Fatima's eyesight began to fade. Salma did not even have the strength to walk, so she remained lying down. Suddenly, the sounds of plates began to erupt in the camp. Salma, exhausted from hunger, began to feel a wave of energy spread through her body. On the other end, without any energy at all, Fatima lay on the floor. Salma was terrified that she would die of hunger. Looking at Salma, who had hurriedly come out, the woman in the neighboring tent told her, “Salma, take your pot. They have allowed relief supplies at the border. But the army has closed the street you usually take. They have also put up a warning sign saying, “If you cross, you will be shot.” The relief supplies may run out before you can go around the streets that the army has allowed, so leave immediately.” Salma looked at Fatima's face. Disturbed, Fatima immediately understood the meaning of Salma's gaze. “No… don't go that way!” she said softly but firmly, as hunger laced her voice. But Fatima's life was too important to Salma. She kissed her baby Yasin eagerly on the cheek. In that moment, Yasin felt the scent of motherhood embracing him in his entirety. Considering the need for time and relief, Salma quickly took the plate and left. At the end of the street where she had lived, more than twenty men, women, and children in the camp were hiding behind a wall, watching the army’s movement closely. If they were able to cross onto the lane on the other side of the street, while the army’s watch was relaxed for a few moments, they could reach the relief camp in no time. Their courage to play with death was catalyzed by the truth that in each of their homes, there were people like Fatima, whose lives were being held on by a thread. Salma joined them. Thinking that the army on either end of the street was asleep, they started walking, yet the eyes of one soldier caught them crossing. The alarm that he sounded awakened the other soldiers, and bullets began to rain from their guns. The eyes of the dead that fell remained wide open in thought of the starving. The plates brought to gather relief were splattered with blood. ∎ ALSO IN THIS ISSUE: AUTHOR Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 Heading 5 AUTHOR Heading 5 Photographer unknown. Wild peppergrass (L. chalepense L. ), ca. 1900–20, from Wild Flowers of Palestine . Source: Library of Congress SHARE Facebook ↗ Twitter ↗ LinkedIn ↗ Gaza Palestine Tamil Fiction Solidarity Short Story India Genocide Solomon P. is a writer who has authored two novels: "Vasanthaththai Thedi" (“In Search of Spring”) and "Puzhal Sirai" (“Puzhal Prison”). His political essays have been published in Tamil print media. He is also a social activist. In his youth, he directly witnessed and experienced caste atrocities. For more than twenty years, he has been actively involved in anti-caste and democratic movements. As a result, he has endured many instances of police brutality. He has consistently raised his voice in Tamil Nadu’s public sphere in support of both Palestinian liberation and Tamil Eelam independence, working alongside democratic forces. Gaza Palestine 24th Jun 2026 On That Note: Heading 5 23rd OCT Heading 5 23rd Oct Heading 5 23rd Oct

ARTIST Mon M MON M is an organizer, writer, and illustrator from Bangalore, India currently organizing around surveillance, ending jail expansion, and prisoner support programs in Lenapehoking/New York City. Her work focuses on undoing the reformist creep of progressive criminal justice institutions and policies, as well as on abolitionist feminist strategies for ending the carceral state, and anti-caste solidarity within the South Asian diaspora, as a Savarna individual. She is a co-author of 8 to Abolition , as well as a founding co-organizer of the National No New Jails Network , and Free Them All for Public Health . ARTIST WEBSITE INSTAGRAM TWITTER Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 Heading 5 Heading 6 Heading 6 LOAD MORE