Buried Truths, Rising Voices

It resembled us—  
that voice, grown from our anguish,  
carrying pain washed clean by dew,  
telling our stories with unheard tone,  
as if he spoke from behind a soundproof glass.

A voice of ours, born of our wounds,  
steady as dawn on Gaza’s brow,  
like a sea resisting the blade of fate,  
like a field of anemones in spring’s gentle glow—  
Full of longing, even as it fades.

It was just a voice.
No weapon in hand, no blood on its breath,  
just a melody,  
perhaps borne by the wind beyond the edge,  
or a whisper  
that reached the hearts of those who were numb to the truth.

Why did they silence it?  
Was it because it looked like us?  
Because he loved the land  
as if his soul were forged in her dust?

Yes, it was a voice,  
a light from the heart when the sky turns black,  
illuminating ruin, gifting breath to hope—  
and so, they feared it
and buried it beneath the ground—without a tear, without even a tremble.

But a voice born of truth  
is never laid to rest.  
It lingers—  
in the dust, in the wind,  
in every heartbeat that dares to remember.  
One day, it will rise again—  
not as a whisper,  
but as a storm.

About the author

Nour Abdel Latif is a mother and a teacher. She contributed a short story titled ‘Canary’ to Gaza Writes Back, edited by Refaat Alareer