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It’s happening everyday in family court. Abusers pathologizing protective parents for attempting to protect their children from the ongoin
#poking to #prying
After the Bombs Fell Silent… We’re Trying to Hear Life Again.
They say the war has ended… But in our hearts, the echoes of explosions still remain. In every corner of our home lies a story left unfinished. Our doors, once opened to the light of morning, are now charred wood telling the silence of long, sleepless nights.
We thought returning to life would be simple… But when we came back to what was left of our house, we realized the destruction wasn’t only in the walls— it was in our dreams that fell with them. Beneath the rubble, we found my little daughter’s toys, and clothes waiting for a tomorrow that never came.
Today, we’re trying to start again from nothing. Trying to build warmth from ashes, a home from broken stones, and hope from the remains of pain.
We’re not asking for the impossible— only for a chance to live with dignity, to rebuild our home, to protect our children from the cold, and to tell the world: we are still here, despite everything.
Every contribution, no matter how small, is a brick in the wall of our new home, and a heartbeat in a heart trying to live again. Help us turn these ruins into warmth and hope.
My name is Abedmajed Elderawi, and I live in Gaza with what remains of my once large and loving family.
A final word: We are not looking for pity, but for a chance — a chance to rebuild what was lost with trembling hands that still hold onto hope. Together, we can turn this destruction into a new beginning.
“The worst distance between two people is misunderstanding.”
— Law of Attraction
Resmaa Menakem, My Grandmother’s Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies
Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies
Hanif Abdurraqib, A Little Devil in America: Notes in Praise of Black Performance
Hanif Abdurraqib, They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us
When home no longer means home
I don't want to go home yet.
This place is so strange and yet so familiar.
Where walls take on a life of their own,
pressing in until the air
becomes increasingly thin.
People who have become strangers,
echoes from past lives,
I’m watching, miles away.
I don't belong here anymore.
Anywhere anymore…
I lose myself in waters I have cried,
in words bled from my pain,
in worlds I have created myself.
I know the answer
Do you sometimes think of me
the way I think of you?
Full of despair,
clinging constantly,
every conversation on a continuous loop,
every moment burned into your soul,
my face in your mind's eye?
Do you?
Do you sometimes look at me
the way I do at you?
A glance full of treacherous love,
absorbing every little detail,
admiring every inch
like a building from the Victorian era?
Do you?
Do you sometimes listen to my voice
the way I do hear yours?
When thoughts roar,
when my tones become
a calm counterpart for you,
wrapped in peace?
Do you?
I know the answer,
but a no hurts more than a poem.
That's why I write when I think of you.
Could you maybe just look at me,
with those eyes I've lost myself in so many times,
and say that you love me,
even if it's not true.
I just need to hear it right now.
My life is tied
to the damned antidepressants
and a promise I once made,
in a fragile moment,
when their words echoed
and their tears broke me.
But my heart is tied to you,
one-sided,
because it knows no other way,
a lifelong curse, no escape in sight.