Chronicles of an Elder

I’m old now. I didn’t take that in until my latest February birthday. Reaching it, I’m three years older than my mother who died at eighty. It’s startling to find myself in territory she was not around to explore. I grope my way around in my newly acknowledged elderhood, looking for anchors that make sense, before there are no more anchors, no more journeys,

Endless articles tell me what a healthy old age looks like, what I should do to enjoy it, to feel positive. Of course I read them. Sometimes I snort with contempt. I’m not going to take up power gliding to prove a point. Other times, I think maybe it is important to up my intake of chickpeas. On good days, the thought of death keeps its distance. On bad days, mortality hovers around me like a nimbus, wisps of fear encircling my body. It’s mostly a quiet fear, though sometimes I erupt into panic, trying to mentally outrun the images. What will happen and how will ‘it’ happen; will it be me first or my partner; how will I/he cope? I try to limit the time I give these thoughts; some days are better than others.

A mirroring of my adolescence revisits me in elderhood. Now as then, things are in flux. Lots of unanswerable questions. The younger me kept searching for meaning and direction. The old me does that too, still impatient at how incomprehensible things are. There is no whole to be discovered. Only random fragments lie about which I occasionally assemble into coherence.

Often I feel I’m failing to ‘do old’ properly. Shouldn’t I be a wise old woman, cheerfully dispensing advice to generations below me as I pass around homemade chocolate chip biscuits? Alas, I’m too ill-tempered to measure out the ingredients, too full of rage to focus on the oven. All my life, I’ve waged battle with my temperament, all that Vilnius/Kiev-persecuted-Jew DNA knotted in my interior.

As I’ve aged, I’m more fully convinced we’re born with indelible patterns, ways of being which we can challenge but never fully overcome. For me, the DNA I inherited holds depression and anxiety. I think part of it comes from those times when Jews were slaughtered or conscripted into the Czar’s army, precarious lives subject to random death. Second generation American that I am, those ghetto fears shouldn't still be there. But they are. My genetic test indicated I’m 98% Ashkenazi Jew and 2% Neanderthal. These days, the Neanderthal is the upbeat part of my inheritance.

Curiosity is one of the main engines that keeps me going. That and a strong desire to be seen, acknowledged. Having no biological children, I tussle continually with the knowledge I’ll leave behind no genetic traces. That’s a hard one, though I have no regrets at being childless. I have mothered without giving birth.

So let me continue to be curious, though afraid. Creative, though depressed. Giving, though withheld. Thoughtful, though confused. And all manner of things shall be clear, if only for a brief moment..

……………………….

Thatch House: Bringing Positive Change Through Threatre in the Community

Thatch House (Abuja, Nigeria) Theatre Initiative is a not-for-profit theatre organisation. Its mission is to utilise theatre to bring positive change to Nigerian society. It mounts professional performances that create awareness, inform, educate and entertain its various audiences. We are artists who are passionate about performing arts.

Our major strategy in carrying out our activities has been a community theatre approach. Most of our activities deal with grassroots issues that affect us as a people such as domestic violence, child abuse, rape, women’s empowerment, child marriage, female genital mutilation, drug abuse and human trafficking. Using the storytelling technique, we create drama from first hand information gathered in local communities. 

We perform in the language the people speak and understand at mingling spaces such as marketplaces, motor parks, community halls, village squares and schools. An important aspect of our activities is the interactive session that takes place after every performance. The audience gets the opportunity to ask questions, seek clarifications and make necessary contributions to the drama presentation.

On top picture:

1. Eucharia Ella 

2. Ruth Tamti Loyi

3. Chukwuebuka Ifebunso

4. Unah Michael

5. Abraham Omale

6. Nyam David

7. Mark Musa

8. Alex Oba'a Ella

OUR VALUES

THEATRE FOR EVERYONE

We are a theatre of and for our community, committed to equity, diversity, inclusivity, and accessibility. We believe that engaging in the arts is essential to the human experience and that arts education should be available to all.

ARTISTIC AMBITION

We hold ourselves to the highest professional standards in all our work. We aim to be an important voice in the theatrical world by creating art locally that has an impact globally.

COMMUNITY

We believe that we enhance and bring hope to our communities through our activities. We create civic dialogues with art at the centre and endeavour to be the artistic home for our community.

Thatch House Performances

In Memoriam: We Are Not Numbers

In Memoriam. We pay tribute to four young Gazans, all of whom were part of the We Are Not Numbers community.

Huda Al-Sosi

The WANN Family

October 31, 2023

We Are Not Numbers is sad to announce that we have lost another member of our family. Huda Al-Sosi was killed in an Israeli air strike on Oct. 23 which also took the lives of relatives. The status of her two children is unconfirmed.

May Huda and her deceased family members rest in peace.

Huda was a member of the newest, 18th cohort of We Are Not Numbers. She was an ambitious journalist who was eager to write about the people and conditions of Palestine.

Although she had not yet published at our website, she published two bylined pieces in The Electronic Intifada. Braving Israel’s bombs to hug my parents was written after an Israeli bombing of May 2022 and described her family’s insistance on “resuming our lives” despite the destruction. Gaza’s queen of quilling, published in August 2022, profiled the artist Eman Al-Tayeb, whose “daily practice is impeded by the Israeli occupation and blockade.” Huda reported:

Al-Tayeb considers herself fortunate to be able to pursue art. She believes it allows her to persist in the hardships of daily life in Gaza.

“There is always hope,” she said.

According to Huda’s friends, when she was informed that she had been accepted into WANN, it was the happiest day of her life; she was “over the moon.” She attended all the training sessions before the schedule was interrupted by the Israeli aggression. She loved writing, and she also loved art and reading.

We are adding tributes to Huda as they are able to come in, given the challenging communication circumstances.

Ahmed Dremly

Huda, an aspiring writer, dreamt of being a voice for Palestinians like Ali Abunimah.

Ahmad Abo Rizik

Huda Al-Sosi was a beacon of strength and kindness. I met her during training sessions with We Are Not Numbers. She was full of power and energy and was fueled with passion and the love of Palestine. She longed to reveal to the world the stories and struggles of those living in the shadow of the Israeli occupation, painting a vivid picture of life in this troubled region.

In the short two months that I had the privilege of knowing Huda, I quickly realized that she was a force of nature. Her strength and determination were matched only by her kindness and willingness to help those around her. She had a way of lighting up any room with her infectious energy and her radiant smile.

Huda was not just a teammate, she was a source of inspiration. Her dedication to our common cause was unwavering. Her boundless compassion and selflessness left a lasting impact on everyone fortunate enough to cross her path.

Huda’s words held the power to bridge cultures, to create understanding, and to advocate for her homeland. In a heartbreaking twist of fate, Huda’s dreams were shattered by the relentless violence that plagued Gaza. An Israeli airstrike, intended for reasons unknown, took her and seven members of her family from this world.

The news of her tragic and untimely death struck our hearts with a profound sense of grief. The loss of such a beautiful soul is a stark reminder of the fragility of life, and it’s a pain that we all share.

Huda’s absence leaves a void that cannot be filled, but her memory and the impact she made on all of us will live on. We, her friends on the We Are Not Numbers team, are deeply moved by her spirit and her unfulfilled dreams, and we have vowed to keep her legacy alive. We pledge to continue writing, to carry on her mission of sharing the untold stories of Gaza’s resilient people.

Huda Al-Sosi will not become just another number in the relentless cycle of war; she will forever be remembered as the voice that spoke for her people, an enduring testament to the human spirit in the face of adversity.

Zaina Al Qudwa

From day one of writing training, everyone recognized Huda’s passion and dedication to writing. She never arrived late for any training session and was always the first to engage in any activity. As a mother, she would leave her children at a nearby daycare to be able to attend all sessions. During a class discussion, she mentioned having a story that she believed deserved worldwide publication, but she chose not to disclose its content.

Just a few days after the war began, the members of Cohort 18 of We Are Not Numbers decided to create a video to showcase how life in Gaza is under Israeli aggression. Each participant was required to write and record a short message. Huda wanted the world to understand that “The situation here in Gaza during this war is so difficult and indescribably bad. We prepared our bags with necessary things in case we need them to rush quickly from our homes due to nearby bombardments or Israeli evacuation messages. We didn’t sleep well last night, and I consider myself the luckiest one in the world to have just one hour sleeping this morning. The heavy Israel bombardments is everywhere, attacking residential buildings without any prior warning!”

Unfortunately, no one ever will see and hear Huda sharing her message. Her beautiful dreams came to end when an Israeli missile claimed her life. This is merely a glimpse of her larger story, which was filled with ambitious dreams, a promising future, and a loving family that the occupation ultimately destroyed.

Refaat Alareer

The WANN Family

December 18, 2023

We Are Not Numbers regretfully announces that we have lost yet another member of our family, Refaat Alareer, who was killed by an Israeli airstrike on December 9. Refaat was killed in Shajaiya north of Gaza where he was staying with his brother, his sister, and her four children, who were all killed in the attack. He is survived by his wife and six children.

May Refaat and his family members and all those who have lost their lives in Gaza under Israel’s relentless attack on the Gaza Strip rest in peace.

Refaat, who was 44 years old, is a renowned poet and professor of comparative literature and creative writing at the Islamic University of Gaza as well as the editor of Gaza Writes Back: Short Stories from Young Writers in Gaza, Palestine (2014), an anthology of 15 young writers in Gaza expressing their experience of living under Israel’s siege and blockade following Israel’s 2008-09 offensive “Operation Cast Lead.” Refaat is also the author of Gaza Unsilenced (2015), a collection of essays, photos, and poetry that documents the pain, loss, and faith of Palestinians under Israeli siege. As one of the co-founders of We Are Not Numbers, Refaat served as a mentor for young writers in Gaza ever since its inception in 2014.

Alareer earned his Bachelor’s degree from the Islamic University of Gaza, his Master’s earned from University College London, and his doctorate from Universiti Putra Malaysia.

Even though Israel repeatedly asked residents of Gaza to move south to “safe zones,” Refaat remained committed to staying in his home in Gaza rather than flee under Israel’s constant bombardment, noting that nowhere in Gaza is safe. Refaat gave frequent updates about the dire situation in Gaza on X (formerly Twitter). His poem If I Must Die, Let It Be A Tale posted on November 1 foreshadowed his own death and evoked hope that the widespread death and destruction in Gaza not be in vain:

If I must die

Let it bring hope

Let it be a tale

The poem has already been translated into many different languages and recorded by prominent artists.

In a post on December 3 on X, Refaat included a recording of the terrifying sounds of the relentless Israeli bombardment, commenting:

“We could die this dawn. I wish I were a freedom fighter so I die fighting back those invading Israeli genocidal maniacs invading my neighborhood and city…Pray for us. Pray for Gaza.”

We Are Not Numbers has published tributes in the form of poems by Basman Dewari and Mohammed Arafat. Additional tributes to Refaat Alareer follow below. We will continue to add tributes as we receive them.

Pam Bailey

Refaat was integral to the launch of We Are Not Numbers. We needed a writing coach in Gaza to work with newly accepted writers, to be sure they were ready for our mentors. I had heard so many complaints about the teachers there, because they often teach strictly from the book. However, the one teacher who I uniformly heard praises about was Refaat Alareer. He was a tough critic, no doubt about it. But it was because he was so committed to his students, and because he was so passionate about both the language and its literature.

And in the process of creating WANN and mentoring our writers, he became my mentor as well. There was a time when I became a target of a vicious online attack just as he recently experienced for being so honest in his views, and he was my counselor and confidante during those tough times. I will miss you, Refaat!! Your memory and legacy will live on.

Mohammed Arafat

He is one of the reasons why I speak, write poetry and advocate for Palestine in English! His work and coaching gave strength to young Palestinian writers and poets, despite the challenges we face.

Omnia Ghassan

In my second year of English literature, I took a short story course with Dr. Refaat.  I hoped the course would be the encouragement I needed to keep going with my writing journey, either in Arabic or English. On multiple occasions, he would misspell my name as Omaima instead of Omnia. Eventually, I just accepted his misspelling.

Years after my graduation, he contacted me to invite me to recite one of my poems at the annual Grand Poetry Festival organized by the English Department at the Islamic University of Gaza. As I waited for my turn to rehearse while sitting on the bleachers, I suddenly heard his voice ring through the speakers, “Omaima, come to the stage!” I rose from my seat, annoyed that he was still mispronouncing my name. When I climbed the stairs to the stage, I looked him in the eye and said loudly, “Omnia! My name is Omnia!” He held my gaze, smiling coyly, and said again, “Hurry up, Omaima!”

Every time I visited my old university and ran into him, he would greet me even from far away with a nod. But a year or two ago, I went to the English festival and saw him. “How are you, Omnia?” he asked. I was confused and sad, actually. I was used to Omaima. It had grown on me. The first time he called me by my name was the last time I saw him… This is a memory I shall hold dearly. Rest in power, Dr. Refaat.

Christa Bruhn

The state of Israel uses the world’s most sophisticated weapons against writers, poets, artists, cartoonists, teachers, and journalists to silence their capacity to bear witness to the reality on the ground in Palestine and uplift their people’s spirits as they face the ongoing dispossession of their homeland. Refaat Alareer is one of many voices of Palestine targeted for using the power of the pen to challenge the subjugation of the Palestinian people. Like others before him—Ghassan Kanafani, Naj Al-Ali, Sherine Abuakleh—Refaat’s dedicated service has not only put the inhumanity of Israel’s assault on Palestine into words, but has mentored other writers to add their voice to that testimony. Like those who came before him, his words live on and continue to tell the story of Palestine, a story the world is more eager than ever to hear. Refaat, your tale is being told, and the world is listening. May there be peace and justice in Palestine so that all people from the River to the Sea may live with dignity.

Younes Alhallaq

Talking about Dr Refaat Alareer is not enough as much as doing what Dr Refaat wanted us to do. He was a wonderful teacher and friend as Dr Refaat was always pushing his students and friends to reveal what the occupation has been trying to hide since its existence on the land, concealing the facts. Dr Refaat taught me to write back for it can be the strongest way to approve your right. This is why Israel hated Dr Refaat’s voice. We loved Dr Refaat and we’ve decided his students owe him to complete his desire to expose this cowardly and barbaric occupation.

Haya Sisalem

I remember the first lecture in We Are Not Numbers with him.  He was standing confidently and then he gave us so many secrets that we didn’t know about writing in English.

His smile is everything about him. Every time I write in English, I remember his way of writing. I will work as hard as possible to continue his path and to tell everyone about him.

Khaled El-Hissy

I am very proud to be one of Dr. Refaat’s students. I was and still am his student.

He taught me.

In classes, he didn’t only teach me poetry, drama and Shakespeare courses, but he also taught me academic writing, creative writing, grammar and translation, although he wasn’t my translation professor.

In his classes he also sometimes taught me history, culture and geography. He taught me how to draw even though my drawing was bad. He made me love Tamim al-Barghouti’s poetry.

And maybe most importantly, he made me love and know how to create memes. I never saw a professor uses memes as a method of teaching. He loved memes. He made us love them, too. Sometimes we were meming him and he would love that.

Dr. Refaat always encouraged us to be creative, to think outside the box.

He would tell us to come to the class without researching about the next poem. We would read the poem and discover it in the class. He knew it was difficult for him to do so and he would be mad at us sometimes as it was not easy for us to understand the whole poem without any previous researching.

But he never gave up shaping our creativity.

And to those who were creative? He would reward them with a bonus mark. Only Dr. Refaat’s students know how hard it was to get a bonus mark from him.

I would never forget his facial expressions when he gave me one.

Dr. Refaat was introducing Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? And before this sonnet we read a sonnet for Sir Thomas Wyatt, Whoso list to hunt.

He showed us how Wyatt used the meter, the iambic pentameter, to emphasize himself, by stressing the pronoun “I.”

So I applied the same thing to Sonnet 18. Shakespeare unstressed the “thee,” meaning  meaning “you” in Modern English, at the intro of the poem, indicating that his addressee is weak.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? 

But at the end, he tells the addressee that he will be immortal because Shakespeare mentioned him in his poetry. In this case the “thee” is stressed:

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

And Dr. Refaat was like, “Wow, wow. Excellent. One bonus mark for you. One bonus mark.”

I wasn’t happy because of the extra mark, I was happy because I could make him feel happy, a thing students told me was impossible. This incident, making Dr. Refaat proud and happy, encouraged me and my friends to always come prepared to the class and try to think creatively and out of the box as he wanted.

I really miss him. But I don’t believe he is dead. Maybe Israel killed Dr. Refaat. But his inspiration is still within me and within all of his students.

I mean, Dr Refaat still teaches me a lot of things:

He is teaching me how to always be brave even if I’m afraid of something.

He is teaching me that words are very powerful and immortal. Dr. Refaat’s voice reached and encouraged millions of people although he was in Gaza.

He is teaching me how to be kind, generous, and offering help to others even in these times I need help. To be a giver always more than a taker.

If Israel killed Refaat, it had created millions of Refaats. Each one of his friends is a Refaat. Each one of his students is a Refaat. We honor him by continuing this mission.

Mohammed Zaher Hamo

The WANN Family

November 28, 2023

We Are Not Numbers regretfully announces that we have lost another member of our family. An Israeli airstrike killed Mohammed Zaher Hamo and his father and brothers shortly before the ceasefire which began Nov. 25.

May Mohammed and his deceased family members rest in peace.

Mohammed joined We Are Not Numbers in 2023. He was an English literature and translation student at the Islamic University of Gaza. He was passionate about football and particularly the LaLiga sports association. He was known for his amazing smile and comic genius that could always get everyone laughing out of control.

He will also be remembered for his kindness. “I want to help the oppressed people worldwide who are enduring several kinds of injustice in different parts of the world,” Mohammed said in his biographical statement. “I aspire to shed light on their suffering, raise global attention, and seek support for their cause. I am driven by a strong desire to make a difference and work towards creating an equitable world for all.”

His ambition was to pursue a master’s degree in journalism. A story he published at We Are Not Numbers, “When drama joy becomes a fight for survival,” described how and his family were gathered together to watch a recording of a dramatic comedy he wrote and performed in, when they were interrupted by an Israeli airstrike nearby. That occurred in May 2023. The story was co-published with Palestine Deep Dive. Mohammed’s byline also appeared on the article, Gaza photographer captured and tortured by Israel, published by Electronic Intifada.

We are adding tributes to Mohammed as they are able to come in, given the challenging communication circumstances.

Enas Fares Ghannam

Mohammed! One of the main reasons for why Mohammad was accepted in We Are Not Numbers was his smile and how optimistic he was. May he and his family rest in peace. (Statement originally published on Instagram)

Roaa Missmeh

One of my best friends in WANN has been killed. Mohammed Zaher Hammo. He always had a smile on his face. Always willing to help me with ideas and publishing. He always used to say that in a parallel world, he and I are twins. He was like a leader to us. I can’t stop thinking about him. The truce came, and all the bad news came. He was killed before publishing a book, before going to London, as he always wanted, and before all his dreams came true. I hope he is in a better place. 

Khaled El-Hissy

I was taking these pictures and telling you, “These are for the memory.” We would be happy. All that we thought about at the time was that these pictures would be beautiful memories when we look at them one day. But it never crossed my mind that your pictures, dear Mohammed, would make me cry. If I ever knew that you would be martyred and leave us, I would never have taken so many pictures and videos for you. Where are you, Mohammed, so we can look at our pictures together as we always did?

We used to spend so much time at the university library to study. I would show you our pictures, and you would always laugh your roaring laughter. They’ve stolen you from us. They’ve stolen your laughter. They’ve stolen our university. These videos and pictures will be immortalized forever. And your impact, my dear Mohammed, will remain within us until the last breath.

Laura Albast

I knew Mohammed briefly. I was matched to mentor him mere days before the war. He became my friend. He joked with me, sent me clips of his grandfather’s garden, of him and his baby cousin eating bread and drawing, of his now-destroyed university where he told me he spent most days writing. He was so excited to begin his story, which would have been published for WANN. Mohammed sent me screenshots of a Word document on his laptop, where he had written about Filfil and the wars he’s experienced growing up. I don’t know who Filfil was — a toy, a pet? Nor do I know what horror Mohammed experienced when he was nine years old, 10 years ago. I was waiting for him to tell me, to write his story. But now, all I’ll have is glimpses of his life, and broken messages of his last days in Gaza.

Irene Doukas Behrman

So many things about Mohammed will be impossible to forget, starting with his contagious smile. He radiated kindness, generosity, wit, and wisdom, and was hysterically funny. I worked with him on his story for WANN and then on another piece for a different publication, which he asked that I look over as it was also in English. Following our first video chat, he admitted he’d been a bit nervous as it was his first time ever speaking to a native English speaker. I was so surprised, as his English skills were quite good. He continued to surprise me throughout our friendship—more and more every time we spoke, actually—with his distinctive blend of humour and bravery.

He told me in October that he and his family had decided to stay put despite the very real risk of death, because, in his words, “If we die, we will die in our home on our land, so it can stand as a witness on the Israeli crimes against the civilians and unarmed people of Gaza.” He said he did not want to sleep on the streets in Gaza’s south. Later that month, he gently pressed me on the photos I sent of a march in Boston: “This is a great job! But we need more! I mean we need such [a] protest in front of the White House and such governmental buildings.” He was right, and he was one of the reasons why I booked a bus ticket to travel from Boston to Washington, D.C. in November to protest at the White House.

Mohammed’s Internet connection was in and out, but as recently as the 14th, he asked if he could share a song he was listening to with me. Of course I said yes. He then quipped that once I heard the song, I would block him on WhatsApp. Ever the joker, the “song” Mohammed sent was a short recording he’d made of the hideous sound of Israeli drones up above. He even teased me about my messy computer desktop, which we laughed about together.

After his family lost their home in an airstrike, Mohammed was also brave enough to request that I do some fundraising for them, which he confessed was an extremely difficult ask because it made him feel like “a beggar.” I sent him screenshots of donations flooding in from many of my friends in the United States, and told him that they were his friends too. I wanted him to know he was cared for, and I do believe he felt our care. One of the last things he wrote to me—after he had lost his home, his university, his room, his bed, his computer, and many family members under rubble—was, “I consider myself the luckiest person in this life to have such friends.”

Mohammed was always thanking me for speaking up about Palestine. As unbelievable as it sounds, I believe that he felt indebted to me—a ridiculous notion that I tried to talk him out of numerous times. One of my greatest regrets is failing to convince him that he owed the world nothing, and that we owed him everything. To borrow his words, I consider myself the luckiest person in this life to have had a friend like Mohammed. Rest in peace, my powerful friend. I am forever indebted to you.

Yousef Maher Dawas

The WANN Family

October 16, 2023

On Oct. 14, 2023, the WANN family lost Yousef Maher Dawas. He was killed by an Israeli missile strike on his family’s home in the northern town of Beit Lahia. Several other members of his family were also killed.

May Yousef and his family rest in peace.

Yousef was studying to be a psychoanalyst. In January 2023, Yousef published an essay at the WANN website, Who will pay for the 20 years we lost? In this essay, he recounts the destruction of his family’s orchard by an Israeli missile strike in May 2022. The orchard trees produced olives, oranges, clementines, loquat, guavas, lemons and pomegranates, and its loss “destroyed an important piece of our past. Our family’s history. Our heritage.”

Yousef took some solace in the hope of replanting. WANNers take some solace in the knowledge that Youself is planted in our hearts forever.

Youself was a contributing writer for Palestine Chronicle, which also published a tribute to him. This article includes a video in which the young man talks about his desire to visit other cities in Palestine “more than Paris or the Maldives Islands.” Yousef’s last article for Palestine Chronicle is Kidney Transplant and Rebirth: A Palestinian Love Story.

Yousef’s colleagues have contributed the following tributes.

Ahmed Dremly

I want to talk about Yousef, I want hours to talk about him—even hours would not be enough. Yousef was one of the most helpful guys, not only with We Are Not Numbers, but generally. All the people who met him loved him! Because he was funny, he was a joyful guy.

He used to talk about positive things—about his dreams of traveling, his love of nature. He was always arranging for us to hang out together. He loved to be with people, with journalists. He was a contribute to WANN, Palestine Deep Dive, and Palestine Chronicle. Before the war he was the volunteer cameraman of WANN. He loved photography and he used to take good photos for us on the team.

On the first days of the attacks on Gaza, he sent me messages asking if I could join him to go to document all of the massacres that happened in Gaza. But I told him I wouldn’t go, because they attack journalists. So if I want to be honest, Yousef was one of the most sensitive, helpful and interesting guys I’ve ever met in my life.

Tala Albanna

My beloved Yousef, Joe as he used to be named, or my therapist as I [was] accustomed to call him. My way to the university was full of our talks about his cats and his favorite author, Ahlam Mosteghanemi.

He was a great supporter to me besides a study partner during all the exams period.

Rahaf Abu Zarifa

I’ve known Yousef for two years now, from WANN and a lot of other subactivities.

A great guy with a lot of dreams. He always supported my skills in photography, in writing, which he was passionate about too.

We were working together on a photography project the last time I saw him. Wednesday, 20th of September. This is the second day of him not being a part of this earth. May he rest in peace.

Hamza Ibrahim

My friendship with Yousef warmed my heart in a way that was like the sun’s final kiss to the sea. He resembled the stars in the sky, embellishing my darkness. He left me without saying goodbye. Later, in heaven, I will see you.

I’ve known Yousef for the past two years, and his memory will forever be etched in my heart. A radiant smile was his constant companion, a reflection of his kind, understanding, and loving nature. Yousef was not just a friend; he was a beacon of light, a selfless soul who poured his heart into caring for his friends and community.

Mahmoud Yazgy

He was not only kind but remarkably [full of] initiative, always the first to lend a hand, the first to champion a cause, and the first to sacrifice for the well-being of his community. Yousef’s dedication was unwavering, and his commitment to his people was an inspiration to us all.

The Israeli air strike buried his smile under the rubbles of his house. Recollections of our long walks together after our “We Are Not Numbers” classes flood my thoughts, my heart racing and hands trembling with sorrow. We shared stories, dreams, and aspirations on those walks.

I remember one day when we were out with our group of friends, and I arrived a little late. Spotting an empty chair beside Yousef, I immediately relocated, and when asked why, I simply replied, “Because he’s Yousef.” He was this friend who would understand the hints without saying anything. Today, Yousef may be a martyr, but his legacy lives on in our hearts.

Dear Yousef, you may not be present with us today, but I believe you’ve found peace in a better place. Your spirit continues to inspire us, and your memory will forever serve as a guiding light, a reminder of the profound impact one person can have on the world.

Kate Casa (mentor)

It was such an honor to work with Yousef. He was motivated and open-minded. Like all of the young WANN writers I have worked with, he was anxious to tell his stories so that we in the West could better understand their lives in Gaza. These efforts to make their stories fit our westernized versions of how a narrative should read can sometimes feel like ongoing colonization. It’s difficult for me to imagine writing in a different language, with a different set of rules and structures, especially when it is about something so personal as life under occupation. But Yousef willingly and enthusiastically took this on.

Nick Appleyard (mentor)

He was such a bright and positive young man! It was a pleasure to work with him on his essay – I won’t ever forget that great big smile.