It Could Happen Here - CZM Book Club: Two Stories from Gaza Writes Back, edited by Refaat Alareer

Episode Date: June 28, 2026

Margaret reads you two stories and a poem from an anthology of young, Palestinian authorsSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is an IHeart podcast. Guaranteed Human. Joy is essential and it's also elusive. But now, there's a new and exciting way to start your journey toward a more joyful existence. Joy 101. It's a new podcast hosted by me, Hoda Kotby. If you're craving inspiration to maximize your joy, tune into these candid, uplifting, and moving on-air chats. Open your free IHeart Radio app.

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I appreciate that. I'd be seeing it, but I'm like, man, I still got, like, so much more to do. Like, Prince, he dropped, like, 30 albums. We dropped, like, five right now. That's the rate we got to be going. Yep, that's a good attitude. No matter the era, Drink Chams brings you the biggest names and the most unfiltered conversation. Listen to Drink Chams from the Black Effect Podcast Network on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast.

Hey, this is Chuck from Stuff You Should Know, and we're submitting our most sciencey episodes for your peer review with our new stuff you should know doing science playlist. Out now. You want to know about Occam's Razor? Simplest explanation is usually the right one? We got you covered. Wondered what chaos theory is ever since the first time you saw Jurassic Park. Well, come on down. So distill a nice pot of tea, everybody.

turn down the gas on your bunsen burner and slip into your most comfortable lab coat and listen to the stuff you should know doing science playlist on the iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Coolzone Media. Book club, book club, book club, book club, but club, but club. Hello and welcome to Cool Zone Media Book Club. The only book club where you, the listener, thinks, how long will Margaret keep that bit up about the chanting now that there's usually not

guests. I am your host Margaret Kiljoy. The Cool Zone Media Book Club is the only book club where you don't have to do the reading because I do it for you. And today we have two stories and a poem for you. From the collection Gaza Writes Back, short stories from young writers in Gaza, Palestine. And this anthology was edited by Rafat Alarir for its first release from Just World Books in 2014. But Raphat was martyred by the Israeli military in December of 2023, and a new memorial edition is currently available from PM Press. Hazel, who helps with the show, says that they found this book last year

and immediately knew they wanted to do some stories from it. And we're so happy to be able to present works from it today, with the cooperation of the authors, with P.M. Press, who put out that new edition, and the family of Raphat Al-Aarir. This collection is full of short stories written by young people, most women who came of age during Operation Cast Lead. This was, in Rafat's words from the original introduction,

the quote, full-scale military offensive that Israel launched on Gaza between December 27, 2008, and January 18, 2009. Most of the stories in Gaza writes back were originally written for Rafat's fiction and creative writing classes at the Islamic University in Gaza. Many of the authors were new to writing fiction and or writing at all,

though some were experienced bloggers documenting their experience of life under occupation. Almost all of the stories were composed originally in English, and again in Rafat's words, quote, The stories included here present, in English, a much-needed Palestinian youth narrative without the mediation or influences of translation, or of non-Palestinian voices.

Gaza writes back, provides conclusive evidence that telling stories is an act of life, that telling stories is resistance, and that telling stories shapes our memories. So, to get us started, our first story is called The Story of the Land by Sarah Ali.

To Dad. I looked at his teary eyes and beholding something akin to happy, us. I smiled. The man I have always known to be my father was back. He did not look like that unfamiliar man, whom I could not fully recognize during the last three years. He was no longer that absent-minded, silent figure, gazing at walls all the time and uninterestingly nodding whenever addressed by anyone at home. He was there. He was present. He was actually listening as I went on bragging about a high grade of mine.

A phone call and a piece of paper signed by some Turkish-sponsored institution brought back my father. I looked at his eyes again, this time more carefully, for fear that my first glance was false. As I saw that absolute happiness in my father's eyes, a big smile made it to my face again.

As we now commemorate the land day, we honor the people who stood up for their land in night, 1976, when Israel announced thousands of Palestinian dunums would be confiscated. During Marches held to protest that declaration, six people were killed. The 30th of March brings back a memory of our land, my father's land. A couple weeks ago, we got a phone call informing us that my father's name had been selected for a reconstruction program, funded by Turkey. The program aims at helping Ghazan farmers whose land,

were damaged during the Israeli offensive in 2008, replant their trees. It provides farmers with all types of facilitating materials, such as fences, tree cuttings, seedlings, seeds, and irrigation systems. My father declined to apply for those organizations that gave financial compensations to farmers. How can he take money in return for land? Unlike any other aid program,

this program gives no money to farmers. no money to farmers. It instead helps them stand on their own. Though my father was born to a family of farmers, he did not follow that path. He studied economics and political science in Egypt and spent most of his youth working as a journalist, mainly a columnist, writing about economic and political issues in newspapers in Kuwait. When he was back in Gaza though, he had to take care of the piece of land my grandfather left for him years before. It was not difficult for him. Gradually, the land became more of a passion than a profession. It was one of the few things he cared about, the daily thing that kept him busy.

It was heaven on earth. During those 23 days of the Israeli attack on Gaza, we were constantly receiving news of land being run over by Israeli bulldozers. We were told thousands of trees were gone. were told my uncle's trees were gone. We were told our trees were gone. We were told Sharga, the whole district of Eastern farmland, was gone. But these were rumors, or so my father wanted to believe. We all had hope that our land was still intact, totally untouched. We were clinging to the assumption that only other people's trees could get uprooted, but certainly not our beautiful, unmatched olives. Certainly not the trees that were to my father. The only thing he boasted of to prove he was no less of a gossan than those who repeatedly reproached him for, as they put it, recklessly leaving

the land of black gold, where they assumed he swam in Kuwaiti oil pools every day, and for coming to live here with a small H. My father looked at it quite differently, for here with a capital H, he always believed, is the land of Al-Zate al-Mukadas, the holy oil. Gaza's sky was blue again. Things were over. The news said things were over. My father went there. He went to check up on the land with a capital H.

He put his faith in his olives being an exception. And he went there. He put his faith in that little white spot in the heart of the bulldozers operator, who, my father supposed. could not have resisted the beauty of our land, and who listened to his in it good being that told him not to run over this land. He had faith in the goodness of man, and he went there.

He put his faith in God, and he went there. My brother, who accompanied him, told us later that all they saw as they walked was ruined, lands filled with bulldozed dead trees, which seemed to suffice for their family's need of firewood for years to come. My brother said Dad started crying as he saw people crying. They went on. They saw more toppled trees, feeble and defeated.

They went on. There was the heaven. The scene of our land was not shocking. Simply put, our trees were no exception. Our trees were gone. A miscellany of affliction and denial took over the place. My father's faith, I could tell, was smashed into little pieces. The world seemed like an ugly place.

One of our trees, which later became the subject matter the whole neighborhood spoke of, was still standing there. Just one week before the attacks, my father told my brother how slanted this tree was and how quickly they needed to get rid of it. They were planning to cut it, and yet, ironically, it was the only tree the Israeli army left. Out of boredom or mercy, I cannot tell. But it was still there. Later, whenever my cousins wanted to make dad feel less terrible about it, they made fun of the whole thing. How the hell did the soldiers know you were planning to cut it anyway,

and so decided not to cut it themselves, my cousins would remark. Everyone would start laughing. But dad did not. His land and olive groves were not laughing matters to him. When my father and brother were home that day, my brother started telling us about what he was. he saw. He told us that the trees were uprooted. Al-Shajar-Chajaraf, he kept repeating. My father was in his room, crying. During the weeks that followed, my father's visit to the land,

he had a daily schedule. In the morning, he prayed and read Quran. At night, he cried. Speaking about the land, the houses, and generally the financial losses during or right after the Israeli offensive, would have sounded very selfish and indifferent. to others. When people are dying, you do not speak of your beautiful house that was leveled to the ground. When people are losing their legs and arms, leaving them disabled for the rest of their lives, you do not speak of your fancy car that once looked like a vase adorning the streets of your modest neighborhood, and that is now a gray wreck. When a mother is burying her child before she could say goodbye, you do not speak of your land and your trees that were mercilessly uprooted. Those people speak,

They cry, they mourn, you listen, and for the memory of your insignificant little misery, you grieve in silence. And that seemed to have amassed more agony over Dad's pain. Recently, I went to Father to get accurate information about the trees that were uprooted, their numbers, and their age. Why are you asking? Are you applying for one of those charity institutions that offer some money in a bag of flower instead of helping people plant the trees again? Are you? We do not need those. The guy I met from the Reconstruction Program called last week, and they already sent laborers and farmers to start their job.

Do you still want to apply for charity? No, Baba. I am just writing something for my blog. Blog? Okay, whatever that is. So, how many trees were uprooted? 180 olive trees, I guess, and... 189 olive trees, 160 lemon trees.

14 guava trees, he bellowed, angry that I missed the exact number. Embarrassed, I lowered my head and wondered why I was doing this to myself. My thoughts were interrupted when he went on. Next time you decide to do whatever it is you want to do right now, get your numbers straight. I made no reply. You hear me? There were 189 olive trees. Not 180, not 181, not even 188.

189 olive trees. He left the room for a few minutes afterwards. Guilt was all I could feel. That an Israeli soldier could bulldoze 189 olive trees on the land he claims as part of the God-given land is something I will never comprehend. Did he not consider the possibility that God might get angry? Did he not realize that it was a tree he was running over? If a Palestinian bulldozer were ever invented,

ha, ha, I know. And I were given the chance to be in an orchard in Haifa, for instance. I would never uproot a tree in Israeli planted. No Palestinian would. To Palestinians, the tree is sacred, and so is the land bearing it. And as I talk about Gaza, I remember that Gaza is but a little part of Palestine. I remember that Palestine is bigger than Gaza. Palestine is the West Bank

Palestine is Ramallah Palestine is Nablus Palestine is Jenin Palestine is Turkarm Palestine is Bethlehem Palestine most importantly is Yaffa and Hafa and Aqa and all those cities that Israel

wants us to forget about Today I came to realize that it was not the phone call that brought my father back nor was it the paper signed by the aid institution It was the memory of the land being revived that brought him back. It was the memory of olive trees giving that sense of security each time he sat under them, enjoying their shade and dodging the burning rays of the sun. It was the memory of the golden oil, the best and purest oil,

being poured into jerry cans and handed to family and friends as precious gifts. It was the memory of long years of cherishing the land, years of giving, and belonging. Between my father and his land is an unbreakable bond. Between Palestinians and their land is an unbreakable bond. By uprooting plants and cutting trees continually, Israel tries to break that bond and impose its own rules of despair on Palestinians. By replanting their trees over and over again,

Palestinians are rejecting Israel's rules. My land, my rules, says Dad. Yeah, that's the story. Sarah, who wrote this story, says this about it. I originally wrote this story when I was a teenager and later revisit it and rewrote it for Gaza Rights Back. Looking back, I can see that it is quite raw slash immature and reflects the inexperience of a young writer.

At times, it even feels a little corny to me now. Nevertheless, it remains very special to me because it is rooted in a real experience connected to my father's land which was repeatedly destroyed by Israeli occupation forces that personal history is at the heart of the story

and continues to give it a meaning to me and what do I have to say about this story I mean I think the story speaks for itself in so many ways and I think that this is the power of story and memoir as to take something that is a a news article even to a well-meaning

free Palestine, anti-Zionist person in the West, you read about like trees destroyed, even numbers of trees destroyed, which is so important in this story. And it's not quite, this is what happened to my father when 189 olive trees were destroyed on his land. And the other thing that sticks to me, okay, there's this drive I go on sometimes through Appalachia, and there's this big billboard and it's the middle of the forest you know the highways cutting through the forest and the billboard there's a bunch of trees that were cut down on a hill to make room for this billboard and it says there is evidence for god and all i can think is like yeah and you cut it down to put up that billboard you know because the holiness and the divinity of land itself is so self-evident i like the way that

This story carries that idea. And usually I do snarky ad transitions, and I don't know. I don't feel like it. Here's ads. They allow us to have this show, I guess. You end up with weekend gold tickets to Lassau Montreal. Thomas Rhett. Mumford and Sons.

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Every day you listen is another chance to win. Hey, I'm Hoda Kotby, host of the podcast, Joy 101 with Hoda Kotby. Okay, if you know me, you know this. I'm always searching for inspiration, for support, and useful tools to help maximize joy. So this podcast lets us uncover all of that together. We're going to have these meaningful conversations with the world's most fascinating people. Like when actress Olivia Munn shared how she overcame fierce health challenges that she never saw coming. I've gone through breast cancer and then helped my mother through breast cancer, and that was more difficult.

There's a lot of people who understand postpartner depression. I was not prepared for postpartum anxiety. Olympic champ Sean Johnson revealed why she had no choice but to be a gymnast. There was something about gymnastics that was intoxicating to. me. It's given me a belief that we all have one of those treasures inside of us. We just have to find it. Listen to Joy 101 with Hoda Kotby on the IHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. My first guest is Paris Houghton, Shakira, Luke and Yerrin, Samira and Gracie. I'm so excited. On the bouncy bed. You have surprises? Many surprises. Welcome to Sweet 305 where the group chat comes to

What a f***? It's like a way to say like, oh, my friend, oh, my friend, oh, my brother. Look, I never have I've ever been except with my

my children, my wife, uff. Oof, Yeah, that's the novellella. You're the only person I know that loves

a yellow starburst. It's flammated. No, I'm not that you say, like you'd like to collaborate with this person. This is Sweet 305. Listen to Sweet

305 with Lele Pons as part of my Coultera Podcast Network on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Here's something that should not be as complicated as it is. Getting a racist statue removed. And here's something that should be a whole lot easier than it is. Getting a new one put up in its place. As long as there's a politics of race in America, there's going to be a politics of remembering the Civil War. To get to school, I had to go down Robert Lee Boulevard. Get to the grocery store, I had to go down Jefferson Davis Parkway.

If you're an historian and you leave out half of what the history is, you're not doing your job. I'm Akila Hughes, and Rebel Spirit Season 2 goes deep on both of those things. The fights, the politics, the people who won, and my personal campaign to add something to the Kentucky State House that's actually worth the wall space. We are more than our bodies. We contain essence. We contain spirit. How do you represent that?

They are just fueling a fire that is really catching. You'll see what I mean. Listen to Rebel Spirit Season 2 on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. And we're back. So, Rafata LaRere, who's the editor of that book that we're going to continue to talk about, quotes Samia O'Lwan in his introduction to the book. Quote, There was too much pain in those 23 days. and some of us who wrote about cast lead

did so to heal some of the pain caused by the horrendous memories and no matter how beautiful the spirit of resistance that overwhelmed us this beauty should never override the ugliness of pure injustice our second story is called L for Life by Hanan Habashi

How are you, Baba? It's been ages since I last sat and talked to you. I nearly forgot about my promise to write to you whenever happiness sneaks into my little heart. I'm afraid a letter filled with happiness risks never being written, so let me write to you without conditions. Don't deprive me of the sense of satisfaction I used to get when addressing you. Today marks 11 years since the day you were gone.

But only now am I starting to realize how dearly I miss you, how your loss is too awful a beast to conquer. You know you are sorely needed. My only solace is that I know you feel my thoughts. Life has become more painfully complex than getting a good grade in history, or going out with Auntie Karama's family. Life is never that simple. What to tell you?

Gaza is frustrating these days. Well, these years. It's a good exercise in patience, at least. This summer is the worst of all summers that passed without you. Breathing some good air has become a luxury we cannot always afford. When nothingness takes over, which happens quite too often, I sit in my room, which is fully exposed to the sun, gazing at the tiny mark of the gunshot and the ugly crack it left there.

Yes, that very same crack on the wall caused by his rifle. Such an eyesore. Other times I would gaze at it trying to recall how that soldier might look like. That huge creature grabbed you out. of my bed and didn't give you a chance to finish my bedtime story. I cannot remember anything but his dusty black boots and the frightening rifle. So many times I tried to imagine how he would look like and always ended up believing he is no more than a faceless monster. Maybe I have gone too far thinking of him, of his life, of his family, of his wife whom he loves, of his smart

kid who can get a good grade in math, of him laughing and crying. Baba, what would make this kind of human rejoice over the fact that I am living the agony of being fatherless with an uncompleted story? It is when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to look past all those electricity-free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gaza night, feel the fresh air going straight to my heart, and think of you, of me, of Palestine. of the crack, of the blank wall, of you, of Mama, of you, of my history class, of you, of God, of Palestine, of our incomplete story. I enjoy bringing to my mind your tender voice narrating the story of Thayer.

I still remember how I cheerfully beamed when you told me that Thayer and I are so much alike, that he has my wild eyes, and I, his sheepish smile. I have not yet known who he is or where in life he stands. but I believe I had always trusted your heroes. I can never forget how your dazzling eyes had brightened when you recalled him planting some olive seedlings in the backyard of the orphanage. God bless the smile on your face.

God bless the seeds under the ground. I can never forget how you looked me in the eyes and said, He is a boy who lost his whole family to death, but never lost faith in life. I want you to be as strong. Baba, do you remember when I asked you if he was strong enough to wrestle an Israeli soldier? You grinned, you always did, but you didn't answer me. You wanted me to figure things out on my own.

You told me he was only 12 years old when one of the orphanage girls, Amel, started trembling, hallucinating, and sweating. But nobody there had the guts to break the military curfew, to die. Thayer, however, did go out to bring a doctor for Amal, and then, and then hell on earth, Baba, and then you are no more. I don't remember when exactly I started to care about completing Thayer's story, but whenever I ventured to think of giving it a proper ending, I would get tired and the weight in my head would grow heavier. I could not do it on my own.

I thought I had to think twice, once for me and once for you. I have tried my best, Baba. doing so is not easy nonetheless. Of all the people around me, you know best that it takes two to complete a story. It always does. I hated the fact that I might have been driven by curiosity and the sheer love of endings.

There is another you in my life, just like your photo that stands above the repugnant crack, and your kofia, whose rich black was worn out to a glorious gray. They are all living parts of you. I had to believe that it is the fear of losing yet more of my father that pushed me there. I thought, once I thought, of your soulmate, Mama. I thought you must have talked to her about Thayer. I imagined you both had spent nights admiring his eyes and smile,

for I can clearly remember when you got together, which was some kind of a luxury for Mama. Talks between you did not end. I sometimes travel to specific memories. I hear the timbre of your voice, the echo of Mama's laughter, laughter which died long ago. But don't you worry, Mama never fails to smile. I know I shouldn't bother you, Baba, but you've got to know that every passing day Mama is getting frailer. I always wonder, what does she know which I don't, which makes her go on in a life of bitter loneliness?

She must know much, right? Thinking that she knew Thayer, I once plainly asked her, What happened to Thayer in the end? She washed the last dish, turned the tap off, and started at the sink for some time. I felt like she was about to give me the healing answer, but she at once retracted. Who's Thayer, she asked, narrowing her eyes. Thayer, I answered. Then seeing uneasiness drawn on her face, I repeated. Thayer, my father's Thayer.

In every move she made, in every word she didn't say, I could see the glint of a story in the distance. She used her silence to shield the chaos I spotted in her eyes. Mama, Thayer, the strong kid who planted olive trees at the orphanage. I went on trying to get her to talk. Strong, huh? It doesn't matter how strong you are or pretend to be. Life is going to get to you sometimes. And that doesn't make you weak, sweetheart.

It makes you human. I know, Baba, you don't know this new woman. I don't either. I like to call it wisdom. Mom has become cynical, unfortunately, but she gained a lot of wisdom nonetheless. Believing that her answer had nothing to do with your Thayer, I asked her again if she knew what happened to him

and whether he got back to the orphanage or not. He got back home, indeed. We all will. She whispered under her. breath. I spent that night thinking of Thayer's home, of the distant life in Mama's eyes. I kept wondering what's more torturous.

The awful buzz of the drone outside or the sounds of some tough questions inside. I guess I eventually slept with no answer, thanking the drone for not giving my inner uproar any chance to abate. Here's where I have to do an ad break, and again,

I just not feel in the... Well, imagine your own snarky ad break. Radio experience. We can And gold tickets to Ilsoniq. One, two, Dawn, with Dom Dalla, Chris Lakin friends, Woolley, Deadmouse, above and beyond, subfocus, and more. With flights from Porter Airlines, three nights at Residence in downtown Montreal,

and $1,000 cash. Enter for your chance to win at iHeartRadio.ca. Ilsonique in Montreal, every day you enter is another chance to win. Hey, I'm Hoda Kotby, host of the podcast, Joy 101 with Hoda Kotby. Okay, if you know me, you know this. I'm always searching for inspiration, for support, and useful tools to help maximize joy. So this podcast lets us uncover all of that together. We're going to have these meaningful conversations with the world's most fascinating people.

Like when actress Olivia Munn shared how she overcame fierce health challenges that she never saw coming. I've gone through breast cancer and it helped my mother through breast cancer, and that was more difficult. There's a lot of people who understand postpartum depression. I was not prepared for postpartum anxiety. Olympic champ Sean Johnson revealed why she had no choice but to be a gymnast. There was something about gymnastics that was intoxicating to me. It's given me a belief that we all have one of those treasures inside of us. We just have to find it.

Listen to Joy 101 with Hoda Kotby on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. My first guest is Peres Hilton, Shakira, Luke and Yerrin, Samira and Gracie I'm so excited for! You have surprises, many surprises Welcome to Sweet 305 where the group chat comes to life. What up! It's like a way to say like,

Oh la, my friend, hello, my friend, hello, Hello, my brother, what up! Look, I never have ever been with nobody. Except with my kids, my kids, my kids, if you know. Yes. C. My Amante. Uff.

That's incredible. Yeah, the telenovela. You're the only person I know that loves a yellow starburst. It's lemonade. No, there's someone. I'd like to collaborate with this person. This is Sweet 305.

Listen to Sweet 305 with Lele Pons as part of my Culture at Podcast Network on the IHartRadio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. June is Black Music Month, and on the Drink Chams podcast, we're speaking with the hottest names in the culture, like Sway Lee. Do you realize how legendary you are? I appreciate that.

I'd be seeing it, but I'm like, man, I still got, like, so much more to do. Like, Prince, he dropped, like, 30 albums. We dropped, like, five right now. Like, that's the rate we got to be going. Yeah, that's a good attitude. You also hear stories from industry legends and hip-hop pioneers like Fab Five Freddy. I directed when the Nazis' early videos. Which one?

One love. Wow. I literally filmed in his apartment in Queensbridge. His moms were still up in that apartment. Nans was just beginning to take off. His pops used to live near me in Harlem. His dad introduced him to a whole lot of, you know, conscious stuff, and he made a young prodigy.

No matter the era, Drink Chams brings you the biggest names and the most unfiltered conversations. Listen to Drink Chams from the Black Effect Podcast Network on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. And we're back. Two weeks ago, grandfather went out with Abu Farras, a neighbor,

to get the UNRWA food coupons. He left home sane and returned crazy. That simple. Abu Farras, as grandpa waited three solid hours under the burning sun and the long queue. When he was finally about to get the coupon, he asked the man there,

what are you offering me? His answer was simple. Food. And when, exactly, am I going to get my Jaffa with this coupon? Grandpa cried out. You can imagine what kind of hulabaloo took place. But everything calmed down when Abu Farras forced him back home. I don't like to think much of the incident.

I know that ever since you've been gone, his life is entirely devoted to the grief over a lemon tree and a dear son. Now he is no longer the man I would talk to for hours. He doesn't believe anymore. doesn't believe in me. He says people fight and die to regain our Palestine. But those freedom fighters don't come back, nor does Palestine.

He swears you are now in Jaffo, sitting by a lemon tree, enjoying the sun disappearing into the blue of our marvelous sea. Grandfather says, you would never come back, for who on earth would leave the paradise of Jaffo? I am, day after day, falling in love with the years that dwell in his wrinkled face. and the memories of old days, which are the beats of his weak heart.

You have to expect that I ask grandfather about Thayer. He immediately replied, Thayer refused to share a breath with this dirty world. He chose to grow up somewhere else. Don't give me that ridiculous face. Yes, dead people do grow up, but don't you ever believe that they grow older? This answer was even more confusing than Mama's.

I don't believe you. Faire could never have considered death as an option. And what about Amal? Was he selfish enough to leave her to die? I cried. Who is Amal? Grandpa asked with no sense of concern. For some reason, I felt relieved.

I smiled and answered, My grown-up friend, you should meet her sometime. I told him I intended to visit Auntie Karama the next day and asked if you would like to come. He said he could no longer tolerate children and full houses. I couldn't care less. I kissed his forehead. It smelled like the fragrance of lemon blossoms.

I felt like he had planted a lemon orchard in his cavernous wrinkles. Baba, how could he dare say Thayer was dead? He himself couldn't believe it. I celebrated every new moment added to Thayer's life. I had to be thankful for my faith, for you have to make that leap of faith if you ever want to heal. Years may be the length of one's life, but faith is,

undoubtedly, the width. The next day I woke up really early. I, for my very first time, watched the sunrise. With the dimmed light around me, the world looked just like how I felt. And that was when I looked deep, deep down and started to break apart. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn't stop. I started to wonder if the things I am living for are worth dying for. I started to think of everything I had in life.

Although I have lots of things, they never seem to be necessary. Every time I think I had it the way I really fancy, it twists and turns and slips away. I didn't fuel your soul around, though I tried to dream you closer. It stayed away, just like before. I knew it was about Thayer. I was afraid that I would fall asleep again, knowing that he'll always be the story with no ending. I knew that you were just a story away. A story away.

because I could no longer wait to know what happened to Thayer, I spared the sun two hours to take its favorite place in that awe-inspiring sky. The weather had not yet decided its attitude. The cool air was deceiving, so I put your glorious kofia around my neck, and I unwaveringly went out. I trusted life that day. Grandfather might think that's naive, but you wouldn't, I believe. Life is one of the few that is true.

trustworthy. They say, to find something, anything, a great truth or a lost pair of glasses, you must first believe there will be some advantage in finding it. And what an advantage, Baba. When I finally reached Auntie Karama's house, I knocked on the door impatiently. I waited more than ten minutes outside. Nobody answered my continuous knocks. I was about to return home when Auntie opened the door. She was asleep. How could she sleep while I? I didn't know where Thayer's story ends. She welcomed me inside and excused me to change her clothes. Please don't, I hastily replied to her apology.

She raised her eyebrows, turned pale, and said, What's the matter with you? Something must have happened to your grandfather, or what on earth could bring you this early when you haven't visited me in months? Oh, God, what happened to him? I had to calm her down and drive away her worries. It's Thayer who brought me this early, I said. Yes, Baba. I asked Auntie Karama. I had to, for I knew she was your closest friend ever since you were a little kid who couldn't spell Palestine.

She always prides herself on the fact that she taught you to spell it just right. You had always believed in its bigness. P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for you, N for nature. E for exultation. And then you wrote it just right. You wrote it everywhere you could, on walls, on tables. You carved the stunning letters into trees, and ended up with them engraved in your heart. What about Thayer? She bluntly answered my direct question.

Hope found its way back to my heart to congratulate me on the fact that Auntie did know Thayer. I mean what happened to him in the end? Did he manage to get his way back to the orphanage? Did Amal survive? I asked, but she chose not to give an answer. Truth be told, I was disappointed. I felt you didn't trust my heart. You didn't want me to get any closer to your story.

She returned dressed in black and said, Get up. We are going somewhere special. With my teary eyes, I gazed at her and said, Where on this part of the planet is there somewhere special? She got angry at my answer and said, I am not worthy of knowing Thayer in the first place if I didn't believe in this part of the planet. You have to know that I felt ashamed.

We eventually left. She took me to places I have never been to. The narrow, dark roads of the camp captivated my heart. I felt that bittersweet sensation. I felt you were there. I was sure you were there. On our way to the special place, Auntie Karama didn't stop talking about every single family in the camp.

Stories of deep agony were our companions. I asked her how she could know all these stories. She said that our Nakhba is no secret. I admired her more than ever. In my eyes, she had been no more than a dull history teacher. It was the first time I knew that she refused to get promoted to be more than a third-grade teacher. She believed in children.

She said she couldn't leave the hope that resides in their pure little hearts. Here we are, she said. I was totally surprised. Was it even a place? I went in speechless. Auntie Karama seemed to enjoy the remnants of a burned house. A scent coming out of the earth enveloped me. I couldn't wave it away.

Auntie's smiling silence started to press heavier on my heart. I lost sense of the place. I'm nowhere. I'm everywhere. I'm here. Auntie's fruity voice finally came to life such that you wouldn't believe it had ever been silent. Goodness,

Can you feel it? Your father spent his entire youth teaching the kids here to spell Palestine. P for passion, A for aspiration, L for life, E for existence, S for sanity, T for trust, I for you, N for nation, E for exultation. I, for a few seconds, was afraid

that she too had gone crazy. Which kids, Auntie? Your special place is no more than a wasteland, I spoke fine. Finally, she swallowed what seemed to be a great deal of anger. She went back to the ruins. She smiled. She laughed. She cried.

She went on sighing. Now, what does your place have to do with Thayer and Amal? I interrupted her ongoing sighs. You know what, Mariam? You blew it. However, I've always believed life is about second chances. You hardly ever deserve them, but at some point we all need them. She tenderly replied to my rudeness.

She went on asking me, If you prayed for courage, does God give you courage, or the chance to be courageous? If you prayed for truth, does God give you his truth in your hand, or the chance to open your eyes? Life takes work, I believe, I briefly answered. Then open your eyes, sweetheart. Look past the burned house. You'll find the answer by yourself.

I believe in you. I believe in whomever your father told the story of Thayer, she said. smiling at my teary eyes. I couldn't see anything, Babam. Nothing caught my bleeding heart. I felt ashamed. I felt you deserved a better successor. I lowered my head to the ground.

I smiled. I laughed. I cried. I kept on sighing at the sight of the olive tree standing alive at the very edge of the burned house of the orphanage. Thayer's seeds grew up. Nothing else was left,

but the tree was enough for me, for Amal, for Thayer, and for you, my dearest Baba. It is when darkness prevails that I sit by the window to look past all those electricity-free houses, smell the sweet scent of a calm Gaza night, feel the fresh air going straight to my heart. When I think of you, of me,

of Palestine, of the orphanage, of the olive tree, of you, of a mall, of mama, of you, of my history class, of Auntie Karama, of you, of God, of Palestine. of Thayer's story. And that's the end of that story. Ah, Lord, what do I have to say about this story? I almost feel selfish in the way that the story connects with me,

but my Irish grandmother went by Baba. I don't know why. So immediately when I start this story, I think about my grandmother who always talked to the dead. She lost her son, like when he was a young man. and she never really recovered from it and she would walk around and she would talk to him and it kind of, I don't know whether that was

cultural or religious for her or not but it kind of rubbed off on the family to just talk to the dead. So this story of talking to Baba hit me real hard and I don't know. I also while reading it, I feel really grateful for the job I have,

I know this sounds weird. I feel really grateful that I got to read these stories to you. It feels like the payoff of doing this show is this particular episode and this way of understanding that people are people all over the world and that when we reduce things to news stories, we lose the actual stories. and it's through story and poetry

that we really understand who each other are and that we're able to connect with each other. And I think that we have any hope of accomplishing anything. And I really appreciate this story's willingness to be raw and honest about being like, I'm not a worthy successor, right? But no one is, and we're all just people. and I really like how well this story carries that and it doesn't put us down,

doesn't put people down to say we're just people. You know, the father is not a perfect character in this book or whatever, right? Neither is the protagonist. And yet, you know, here they are doing the thing and they're not put down in any way. And if anything, they're elevated by that. Yeah.

And Hazel, who I owe so much to for helping put all of this together. Hazel says, quote, this story and Sarah has both split my heart open. At every turn, away toward hardness and apathy, Hanan invites readers to turn towards the rending,

to feel her deep grief, but also her profound connection to place, to history, to legacy, to life itself. It makes me feel raw, so mortal, but so alive. It's been a few days since I read these again while writing the script. And what they say about how inviting in

that grief invites the joy and attention is so true, and it's a wonder to keep learning this. I've been just so heavy with grief for Gaza and Palestine, but at the same time, never more enraptured by the sunset on my drive home, so full of gratitude for the lingering strawberry taste of a sour candy, so attuned to my rootedness to the city I call home. Palestine really is the heart of it all. And to close out this particular episode, I have one poem for you today. and it's by the anthology's editor, Dr. Rafada LaRere.

Originally from Gaza, Rafat completed his graduate studies in the UK and earned a PhD in English in Malaysia. Afterward, he went back home to Gaza, determined to serve his community. He took a position as a professor of English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, where he had completed his bachelor's degree, where he taught for 16 years. He frequently said that one of his main goals of teaching

was to highlight the parallel experiences of Palestinians and Jews through literature. And this is hard to read. Raphat co-founded the organization, We Are Not Numbers, which paired up established writers with emerging authors in Gaza, quote, promoting the power of storytelling as a means of Palestinian resistance against the Israeli occupation, according to Wikipedia. Raphat also volunteered at the Gaza Zoo,

which he continued during the war. Ali Abanima remembers Rafat as, quote, teaching us that stories are what binds us together and keep our hope alive. Rafat was killed by an Israeli missile strike on December 6, 2023, alongside his brother Salah and Salah's son, Muhammad,

his sister Asma, and her three children, Allah, Yahaya, and Muhammad, while they were all taking shelter in Asma's apartment. He was 40-4-4-4-2. years old. In a statement, the Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor stated that because of the highly surgical nature of the strike, it is likely that Rafat and his family were, quote, deliberately targeted. Over 30 members of Rafat's and his wife's Nusabas family have been murdered by the Israeli military, including his daughter Shima, who was murdered with her infant child, who would

have been Raphat's first grandchild. From the anthologies 24 forward by Ali Abanama Rafat's killing was part of Israel's systematic and targeted extermination of Gaza's leading intellectuals, academics, and scientists, a hallmark of genocide.

By late 2024, Israel had murdered at least 94 university professors, along with hundreds of teachers and thousands of students. It had destroyed destroyed every university in Gaza, and damaged or destroyed hundreds of schools. And then, from Wikipedia,

because this editor's phrasing is too good to adapt. Quote, in his last interview before being killed, with the sound of Israeli bombs exploding in the background, Alir said that Gazans felt helpless and that, while he had no weapons, he would defend himself if the Israeli army were to come to his house, using his Expo marker. In 2011, our father

published the poem, If I Must Die, Electronically, and it's since been read widely and translated into over 200 languages. Ahmed Nahad, a close friend and colleague of Rafat, remembered, If I Must Die was actually written for his daughter Shimon. She's the one that was told to tell his story, to sell his things, and to not lose hope, Ahmed said. And so here's this poem. If I Must Die by Raphat Al-Air. If I must die, you must live to tell my story, to sell my things, to buy a piece of cloth and some strings. Make it white with a long tail, so that a child somewhere in Gaza while looking heaven in the eye, awaiting his dad who left in a blaze, and bid no one farewell, not even to his flesh, not even to himself.

Seize the kite, my kite you made, flying up above, and thanks for a moment an angel is there. bringing back love. If I must die, let it bring hope. Let it be a tale. And the bios of our authors today. Sarah Ali. I'm a Palestinian teacher and a writer from Gaza. I studied English literature at the Islamic University of Gaza,

and I've recently finished a PhD in English at the University of Cambridge. I blog, mostly in Arabic from time to time, at S-A-R-A-H-M-A-L-I. wordpress.com. Since the start of the genocide, Samir Foundation has been doing great work in Gaza. People can donate at samirfoundation.org, S-A-M-I-R-Foundation.org. And Hanan Habashi. I'm Hanan, an educator with a background in applied linguistics and literature.

Much of what I do, whether in teaching, storytelling or community projects, has been shaped by questions of language, memory, and the ordinary human story. People can keep up with me through my Instagram account at Hanan writes. That's H-A-N-A-R-I-G-H-T-S. I use it to share writing, reflections, and projects close to my heart. And the anthology that these stories come from, Gaza writes back is available online from PM Press or in person from a radical bookstore near you. And I'm Margaret Kiljoy, and until next time, fuck ice, free Palestine, take care of each other. We're all we've got, we're all we need.

It Could Happen Here is a production of Cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from Cool Zone Media, visit our website, Coolzonemedia.com, or check us out on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can now find sources for It Could Happen here listed directly in episode descriptions. Thanks for listening. Joy is essential and it's also elusive, but now there's a new and exciting way to start your journey toward a more joyful existence. Joy 101.

It's a new podcast hosted by me, Hoda Kotby. If you're craving inspiration to maximize your joy, tune into these candid, uplifting, and moving on-air chats. Open your free IHeart Radio app. Search Joy 101 and Listen Now. Joy 101 with Hoda Kotby is presented by CVS. My first guest is Territ Hilton, Shakira, Luke, and Yerrin. Have surprises? Many surprises.

Welcome to the Sweet 305 podcast where the group check comes to life. What on? You're the only person I know that loves a yellow starburst. It's lemonade. This is Sweet 305. Here, oversharing is encouraged. Listen to Sweet 305 with Lele Pons on the IHart Radio app, Apple Podcast, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey, this is Chuck from Stuff You Should Know, and we're submitting our most sciencey episodes for your peer review with our new stuff you should know doing science playlist. Out now. You want to know about Occam's Razor? Simplest explanation is usually the right one? We got you covered. Wondered what chaos theory is ever since the first time you saw Jurassic Park. Well, come on down. So distill a nice pot of tea, everybody. Turn down the gas on your Bunsen burner and slip into your most comfortable lab coat and listen to the stuff you should know doing science playlist on the

iHeart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. June is Black Music Month, and on the Drink Chams podcast, we're speaking with the hottest names in the culture, like Sway Lee. Do you realize how legendary you are? I appreciate that. I'd be seeing it, but I'm like, man, I still got, like, so much more to do. Like, Prince, he dropped, like, 30 albums. We dropped, like, five right now.

That's the rate we got to be going. Yep, that's a good attitude. No matter the era, Drink Chams brings you the biggest names and the most under filtered conversations. Listen to Drink Chams from the Black Effect Podcast Network on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This is an IHeart podcast. Guaranteed Human.