Phalapoem editor, 2/03/25
[Scene: A bombed-out street in Gaza. Smoke and dust fill the air. Hassan kneels beside Samira, cradling her fragile body in his arms. Handala, barefoot as always, stands nearby, watching in silence. The ambulance siren wails in the background, but Hassan knows—he knows it’s too late.]
Hassan (his voice shaking, brushing dust from her face):
“Samira… stay with me, love. Please. Just a little longer. Help is coming.”
Samira (her voice weak, but calm, her fingers barely gripping his sleeve):
“Hassan… you finally… found me.”
Hassan (choking back a sob):
“I was always looking. Always.”
Samira (her lips tremble into a faint smile):
“I kept your postcard… five times a day… it was my window… to a world without war.”
Hassan (his forehead presses against hers, his tears mixing with the dust on her skin):
“I should have written more. I should have told you—”
Samira (interrupting, her breath shallow):
“You told me enough… you told me… you saw me.”
[She exhales softly, her grip loosening. Hassan stares, willing her chest to rise again, but it doesn’t.]
Hassan (his voice breaking, rocking her gently):
“Samira? Ya Samira… no… no, no, no…”
[Handala steps forward, his small hands clenched into fists. He doesn’t cry. He never does. He simply watches.]
Handala (softly, bitterly):
“She built houses in her mind while they destroyed them in real life. She dreamed of arches and courtyards… but they buried her beneath rubble.”
[Hassan looks up at him, eyes hollow.]
Hassan (whispers):
“What do I do, Handala? What do I do with all the may-have-beens?”
Handala (his voice quiet, yet filled with centuries of sorrow):
“You carry them. Like we all do. Like we always will.”
[The ambulance siren wails on. But it is too late. For Samira. For Hassan’s love story. For yet another dream stolen by war.]