The first clock stopped at 2:17 a.m.

I didn’t hear it die. I only noticed the silence afterward. Its ticking used to echo softly against the concrete walls. The walls that seemed to close in a little more every night. When the ticking vanished, the room felt larger and emptier at the same time, as if time itself had stepped out and left me behind.

I took the clock off the wall. Its hands were frozen over a moment I couldn’t remember. A moment so ordinary it didn’t know it was the last breath of normal.

I decided then:
Every time a clock stops, I will write a letter.
Not to repair time, but to remember it.

Letter One: 2:17 a.m.

Dear You,

You might never read this, but I need to document this.

At 2:17 a.m., the walls shook again. The dust fell in thin lines from the ceiling, like grey rain. I tried to measure the distance between fear and sleep, but the clock had already given up.

I held my breath and imagined you safe somewhere far from sirens and shattered nights. I imagined you surrounded by clocks that still believed in tomorrow.

Tonight, I am writing to you because time refused to move with me. Because when the hands froze, I felt my own hands turn cold.

If this letter reaches you, remember that at 2:17 a.m., existence narrowed into the small circle of a clock face, and I stood inside it, waiting for morning.

Yours in the dark,
—R.

Letter Two: 3:58 p.m.

The second clock stopped under sunlight.

It was my sister’s wristwatch that she had left on the windowsill while washing rice. A flash in the sky, a very close sound, and the watch simply… quit. The rice spilt. She did not.

Dear Window,

I am writing to you because you witnessed everything. You saw how the sun blinked, how my sister’s hands trembled, and how the watch stiffened like a heartbeat that forgot its next step.

You have watched this house through summers and winters, but never like this. Never with this kind of brightness that steals instead of giving. You witnessed a neighbour’s flesh scatter across you, and still you stood there, silent.

You were like a blood stain on my white shirt, something ruined forever, and still worn with love.
And I still live here, with love, with my sister, and with her broken wristwatch.

If you can remember her watch at 3:58 p.m., please remember her smile too. The one the sunrises used to soften, before light became something else.

—R.

Letter Three: 6:03 p.m.

A child found the third clock in rubble.

The small blue watch. It was plastic and cheap, but it was barely scratched. Only the hands refused to budge. He brought it to me in his palm, as if offering time itself for repair.

Dear Little One,

You asked me if I could “wake it up.”

I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to promise that every broken thing can be brought back to life.

But the truth is heavier than your tiny wrist.

I don’t know how to wake time up. I barely know how to keep myself awake these days. Time slowed down once, but now I can’t feel it at all. Yet you held the watch with such hope that for a moment, I believed time could hear you calling.

If time listens to anyone, it must be children.

So keep calling.
Maybe it will turn back for you.

—R.

Before the Flood of Time

The letters keep multiplying.
Clocks keep freezing.
Watches keep falling and falling silent.

And with each letter, I feel myself moving further from the moment it was born.

But writing them down is the only way I know to keep the moments from erasing themselves. Each letter becomes a small rebellion against disappearing. A proof that even frozen seconds have something to say.

And maybe one day, when all this ends, I will gather these letters, place the clocks side by side, and see if they form a map. A map, not of war, but of survival.

Time hasn’t moved with me, but I am still here.
Still writing.
Still listening to the silence between ticks.

Letter Four: The Watch That Traveled With Me

The fourth clock didn’t stop in Gaza.
It stopped here, in Dublin.

It’s the watch my mother gave me. It was wrapped in thin paper in a small sachet, handed to me like a promise she didn’t want to say out loud. I repaired it before leaving Gaza, even though everything else around us was falling apart. I kept looking for someone who could help with tiny batteries for days. In the end, the streets cracked, the nights shook, but the tiny gears inside that watch came back to life. I told myself, “If this watch stays alive, maybe I will too.”

I carried it through the airport, through borders, across skies that didn’t thunder with explosions. I carried it through that first cold Irish wind that bit my cheeks and made me feel like I’d arrived on another planet.

And then, one quiet, safe, unbearably peaceful morning, the strap simply snapped.

It didn’t happen with a sound.
No warning.
Just a soft, sad break.

I held it in my hands, like a heart I didn’t know how to fix anymore.

Dear Dublin,

I am writing to you because you caught me at a strange angle. I was safe for the first time but still shaped by danger.

Back home, I prayed time would move. I wished I could feel time passing.

Time here moves fast, and I can’t always catch it.
Back home, everything broke loudly—
walls cracked.
nights split.
people disappeared.
even hope shattered.

But here… here things break quietly.
A watch strap gives up.
A breath trembles.
A memory slips out between footsteps on wet pavement.

I thought I would repair the strap immediately, like I did back home.

But I didn’t.
I still haven’t.

Maybe I’m afraid that if I fix it here, it will become an Irish watch instead of a Gaza one.

Maybe I need it to stay broken in this place because it is my only way of saying, “I haven’t forgotten where it kept time first.”

Dear Mama,

You gave me this watch so I could take a piece of you with me.

But time moves differently here.
It travels.
It runs.
It doesn’t jump or hide or bleed.

I wish you could see how strange that feels.
How guilt sits behind every moment of safety.
How I look at my wrist and feel the absence of both the strap and you.

One day, maybe, I will fix it.
But not yet.

For now it lives in my drawer, sleeping like something exhausted from all the miles it survived.
A little Gaza heartbeat resting in a quiet Irish city.

Confusion Never Stops

The clocks keep stopping, each in their own way.
Some freeze under rubble.
Some break under clear skies.
Some simply lose the strength to hold on in a place where time is gentle.

But each one carries a story.

And this watch. This particular watch holds two worlds.
One of fear.
One of safety.

And a girl learning how to live inside both.

Tonight, the watch stays in the drawer.
The city sleeps.
And for a moment, so do I.

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.