The morning was quiet,
as if death had not just passed through.
Nothing in the cave bore witness
to an ending that had occurred.
They brought him in an old, worn wooden box.
His children came to bid him farewell,
but Yasmin was absent from the scene.
They found her behind an abandoned wall,
staring at a photograph of her mother,
whispering:
“A new guest will come to you…
Kiss his forehead for me.”

In a bold, unforgiving hand,
she wrote on the cave wall:
“He went out to bring food,
and they killed him.”
At the funeral,
she was silent, like soil that knows its fate.
She buried him with her trembling hands,
then descended into the grave
and embraced the body,
until his blood mingled with her dress
and grief became tangible.
She returned, holding the hands of the two children,
to the cave beneath the rubble of the house.
As soon as they entered,
she gasped
and froze in place.

Among the rubble,
she found a gray photograph of her father.
She leaned it against a slanted rock
and lit a solitary candle,
as if igniting a memory.
When evening came,
the children slept on a thin mattress.
Yasmin lay beside them,
but sleep eluded her.
The cave was dark,
and loneliness was a heavy creature
pressing upon her chest.
The days passed slowly,
and hunger grew
like a wound with no cure.
She walked to the neighboring district,
barefoot,
her face pale.
Her story was lost among passersby—
no one listening.
Stories blurred together,
and hunger crept through the city
like a silent poison.

At the corner of the street,
she saw a young, well-dressed man standing alone.
She asked him for something
to feed her siblings.
He said he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
She looked at him for a moment,
then moved on.
The road to the cemetery was long,
the night cold,
rain weighing down her torn dress.
She sat between her parents’ graves
and wept
until she lost consciousness.
She saw her mother in a dream,
approaching slowly,
stroking her hair,
whispering:
“Rise, my daughter…
their hands were cold.”
She woke
and returned to the cave.
Nearby,
she saw a horse grazing on the grass.
She gathered the herbs
and cooked them in a pot,
bitter as gall.
Whenever hunger struck,
she cooked again.

One evening,
she went out carrying the pot.
There was no grass to be found.
She sat on the ground,
grabbed a handful of soil,
and filled the pot.
She lit the fire
and made them believe
the food was coming.
In the morning,
the cave was silent
as never before.
She tried to wake the children.
They did not respond.
Their hands were cold—
colder than they should be.
She held their bodies
until evening.
She stood before the photograph,
and in the flickering candlelight
she glimpsed a shadow
resembling her father.
She said in a broken voice:
“I tried.”

The shadow dissolved into the air.
She dug three graves
with her hands.
She laid the two bodies inside
and covered them with soil
mixed with her tears.
She lifted her gaze to the sky
and said nothing.
Then she placed the candle
beside their graves
and slept in the last one,
covering herself
with the black soil.
When the soil grew still,
the sky darkened gradually.
Heavy rain fell,
and the photograph toppled.

*************

Noor Aziz is a writer from northern Gaza, born in 2001. She studied English Literature at Al-Aqsa University. Her writing explores human resilience, loss, and lived experience, drawing on personal and collective realities. She has participated in literary initiatives including Resilient Voices.

Note: This project is supported by the British Council as part of the SARD programme, which focuses on the role of English and other languages in building resilience. SARD – Stories of Adversity, Resilience and Determination – encourages Palestinians, particularly young people, to share their stories and lived experiences through creative and educational media. The content of this production is solely the responsibility of Resilient Voices and does not necessarily reflect the views of the supporting or partnering institutions.