In the House of Mourning,
Everyone finds a temporary space to grieve
No one has had enough time to recover
Since the beginning of the Palestinian year of sorrow
During my father’s funeral
I tried to keep my own grief aside
I put effort to comfort the mourners
Mourners who found in our house a chance to embrace their pain
Grief matures into layers
Scars remember one another
And together they become one
Is the house of mourning, then,
A space for beginning to heal
From sorrow that has been piling up for more than one year
As soon as the news of my father’s passing spread
My sister Amal Qosh and her husband Hossam arrived
His sister had been martyred just days before
I didn’t know how to console him
Nor could I find words for my uncle Suleiman Qosh
Who had lost his eldest daughter, Samah and her children
He wept with pride
Grief brings up grief
Then came my uncle, Dr. Anwar Qosh and his wife
The moment he entered the house
A heavy tear hovered in his eye
His sons, Ayman and Hossam, were martyred last January
Their six-story building
Along with clinics, engineering and legal offices
All bombed to the ground
As for his wife
She did not lose only her two sons
She also lost over fifty members of her family
Siblings, nieces, nephews
She stood among the women reciting Quran
Smiling at times, trying to calm down others
Then suddenly she remembers her grief and starts crying
Once smiling again and once weeping
Then came my aunt Wedad, also our neighbor
Her house was bombed a year ago
Her son Hamza, whom we used to call the flower of the neighborhood, was martyred
Her grandsons were also martyred
Her three daughters lost their homes in this war
Sitting beside her was my aunt Inaam
She lost her daughter and her grandchildren
The fate of her son is still unknown
As for my aunt, Ni’mah
She was not at the funeral
She was martyred last December
She chose, with her husband, children, and grandchildren
To welcome my father in Heaven
The mourning hall widens
As do my reflections on the faces of those present
Everyone is either bereaved or lost
All are pierced deep by pain
Even pain itself, cannot reach it anymore
Yesterday, my mother’s friends visited us
Um Khalil, Um Mohammed, and Um Abdullah
As soon as they saw me
Their wails filled the air
My father’s death had uncovered their own wounds again
Um Mohammed’s son had just lost a leg
Her other son was martyred
Alongside her daughter’s husband, her brother
Her nephew, a niece, and nine other relatives
All killed in a single airstrike while transporting gas canisters
She couldn’t stop crying
Neither could Um Khalil
Whose son Khalil was martyred in Deir al-Balah
Um Abdullah couldn’t pull herself together
While remembering her five sons
Still buried beneath the rubble under the Muhandeseen Tower
The room narrows as the sorrow becomes heavier
Everyone who came had lost something, or someone
Yesterday, my cousin Lubna hugged me tightly while sobbing
She had lost her son, her brother,
Her nephew, and her other sisters’ children in this war
Even our kind neighbors were all grieving
Including the woman who came to give a religious lesson
She had lost her children and her husband in the war
Now all alone by herself
She preached, then cried and said:
They bombed our house
I survived because I had gone out to get food for my children
When I returned
I found out that my family became a war’s offering
I donated them to heaven
Oh God.
The cries of the bereaved reminded me of Prophet Jacob (Yaqub)
When he lost his son Benjamin and wept while saying:
“Oh, my sorrow for Joseph.”
His eyes turned white from grief, for he was choked with sorrow
As if the first shock was embers covered by paper
And when the second one occurred, it lit it in flames again
We are all Joseph’s tears
And Jacob’s heartbreak
Grief has exhausted me entirely
I still try not to let the smile on my face disappear
I hug myself
Trying not to break
Like the last fragile door in a house of mist
However, my heart is melting like a mirage
As I bear my grief and loss
Um Fawaz, our neighbor, lost both her sons
Next to her sat Um Tareq who lost her three sons and her husband
Next to them, Um Hassan whose house collapsed by the shelling
Next to them, Um Sarhan who lost her son and her grandchildren
And my uncle’s wife who lost her son
Also, my other uncle’s wife who lost her grandchildren
And whose daughter’s limbs were amputated
Next to me sat Dr. Kifah Al Ghusein who told me
Keep your smile on your face
Do not allow it to fade away
Embrace your pain
We need hope
I responded:
I am trying my best
But my heart is melting out of sadness
A tear circled in her eye,
She continued:
Grief has slaughtered us all
I have been searching for myself
Ever since I lost my home and started living in a tent.
But I haven’t lost hope
Yesterday, when my soul sister, Dr. Alaa Al-Qatrawi, visited me
She told me bravely:
Your father is lucky, Maryam
At least he got a chance to be buried honorably in a grave and a shroud
A prayer and a farewell message
In my case, I waited fifty days for news about my four children
They were all trapped under the rubble
Tens of thousands died without shrouds
I like my friend A’laa so much
She is great
Her grief is noble
She smiles, then cries
And while her tears are dropping from her eyes
She writes a poem
She records a memory
The fragrance of waiting
Yesterday, Amal Abu Assi visited me
I also have special feelings towards Amal
She reached our destroyed neighborhood with great effort
Before hugging me, she said:
Were you here when the neighborhood was obliterated like this?
I answered, embarrassed by life itself:
Yes, and we survived
Even death felt pity with us
For all that we fought for
And for all those who fought for us
As Amal climbed the stairs with me
Her eyes fell on my grandfather’s library
She burst into hysterically in tears and said:
Imagine Maryam,
It has been over a year since I last saw a library
I lost my house and my library in Gaza
My home was the project of my life
All was gone within seconds
Everyone is grieving
Everyone is lost
If I keep listing the pains
I shall never finish
Mourning day came to an end
However, the voices of women are still in my ears
Some counting their martyrs
Others lamenting famine
Famine is now spreading
It is not just the Year of Sorrow
It is also the Year of Famine
I thank all those who stood by us during the mourning days
Who put themselves in danger to show support to us
I thank all our loved ones who sympathized with us
Whether by calling or sending messages or coming at such difficult moments
May peace be with you
And sorrow away from you
Be all safe from harm
Thanks for our family in Egypt
Especially our dear uncle, Sami Jamal Qosh
For standing by my father
Throughout his illness, hardship, and his death
May God reward you all on our behalf
Maryam Qosh
November 13, 2024
