“This is Bisan from Gaza. And unfortunately, I am still alive."

“This is Bisan from Gaza. And unfortunately, I am still alive..”

WordPress Blaze rejected my ad.

This word is the reason.

The word is genocide.

Say it.

Share it.

Flinch.

Censorship by Sanitisation

A poem for those who still flinch at the word "genocide" but don’t give fuck about those it is actually happening to.

Clean.

Cut.

For the masses.

Numbed by meta

tags

and

Twitter wars.

Politicians won’t say it.

Too much for the minions.

Jacked up on caffeine,

truth at the bottom

of a discarded Big Mac box.

And all the while—

genocide.

Say it—

Feel it on your tongue.

Let it worm its way

to your brain.

Think of your own

child.

Dead.

By

Genocide.

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The Things She Carried

“This is Bisan from Gaza. I’m still alive.”

You say it to prove survival.

But it is not a triumph. It is a reckoning.

You are twenty-five years old. You have documented life under siege. But you have not seen war—

not like this.

One day, you are forced from your home.

Leave, or die.

You make sure to pack your voice.

Before this, you were fluent in it.

You knew in your heart that you could speak to the world,

and that maybe, the world would listen.

You make sure to pack resilience.

English is the language of justice, they say.

The West will decide your fate.

Not fair. Just true.

So you learn the language.

You hope they still have some humanity left.

You are not so sure anymore.

You make sure to pack a smile for the children.

You plead for the world to see your people.

We are watching a genocide unfold in real time.

You are given accolades. But not protection.

Most of the world turns away.

The ones who don’t are shouting into a void.

You make sure to pack your memories.

“Alive like never before, I know me like never before, I know what I fight for—and what an honour to fight for, Palestine.”

Despite the destruction, the starvation, the fear—

you find your voice.

People call you brave.

People call you a liar.

You keep speaking.

You will not stop until your death.

You hope that death is not soon.

You would like to live a long life.

You make sure to pack your backbone.

The West reacts, and not how you hoped.

They drown their people in bread and circuses to keep them quiet.

The ones who notice are shouting into the void.

You make sure to pack a strong stomach.

Despite international law, hospital after hospital is bombed.

You document your escape.

You see death up close, again and again.

You keep pleading.

The ones who listen are arrested.

You make sure to pack a toothbrush and toothpaste.

What you ask is small.

Boycott. Witness. Share.

Hold the world’s attention just long enough for someone to act.

But too many children have already died.

You know too many horrors.

You make sure to leave your shoes near the front door.

“I am Bisan. I’m still alive… but I am tired, and God is my witness. I swear it is not despair—my body is growing weak.”

You are starving.

You walk miles with no rest, no shelter.

You make videos between panic and grief.

Children’s screams split your sleep.

There is still a light in your eyes.

You can feel it slipping.

You make sure to pack your rage.

How can the world look away?

How many times have they said never again?

What else must your people endure?

They see you as subhuman.

But it is they who have lost their humanity.

People write flowery words around the term genocide.

You watch them murder your people through hunger.

You make sure to pack your sadness.

What happens when you lose your voice?

Will they see your humanity after you’re gone?

You think a lot about death.

How could you not?

You make sure to pack your identity.

“My people’s last message. It is almost seventy days since Israel decided to prevent any food or aid.”

You are still alive.

You do not know for how long.

Each day could be your last.

It is the last for many around you.

You eat less. There is less to eat.

Children and elders begin to die in silence.

You make sure to pack your childhood.

This war has already taken so much.

You fear it will take the rest.

The barbarism of Israel and its backers is beyond words.

Condemnation feels like shouting into the void.

Those who speak up are deported.

You wonder how anyone can justify letting children starve.

You say goodbye to your loved ones, just in case.

You no longer smile. You rarely laugh.

You are not the same person.

You never will be.

You are both numb and on fire.

“This is Bisan from Gaza. And unfortunately, I am still alive..”