I cannot forget that frost on the steps of Al-Najjar Hospital in Rafah. I cupped my hands and breathed into them for hours but couldn’t feel the warmth. We had been pushed from the rooms and hallways, as there was no space left for anyone but the wounded.
That same frost I remember inside the tent, where we dared not light a fire, fearing a single stray spark could turn the camp to ashes.
That same frost I remember walking far from the tent, searching for a place where I can have access to the internet.
That same frost I remember when I rented a small space to work, weaving day into night, without rest.
That same frost I remember while standing in the back of an open truck while the wind is blowing at me on the way back.
That same frost I remember while waiting until midnight, and sometimes until dawn, to fill the water containers.
That same frost I shall never forget when my friend told me how he was arrested and forced to stand stripped of everything for more than a night.
That same frost that lingers in the torment and abuse that prisoners still endure.
That same frost I carry within me as I am still far from being home.
It is that frost that has no home.
Anees Ghanima
February 25, 2025
