They did not let me, by Amira Atiya Abu Al-Husain

لم يتركوني كي أحتضن عظام أخي.
لم يسمحوا لي بأن أقترب من الجثة أيضًا.
كنت أصرخ، وهم يصرخون:
“لا تفعلي ذلك، أرجوكِ لا تنظري!”
 

فأجبَروني على ألّا أنظر،
لآخر مرة،
لنظرة الوداع.
 

لم يسمحوا لي، خوفًا من هول المنظر.
لكنني أخبرتهم:
سيكون جميلًا، حتى لو كان أخي بضع عظام.

 

أرجوكم، لا تفعلوا الشيء ذاته
عندما نجد جثمان أخي الآخر.
أرجوكم، لا تفعلوا.
 

أعلم أنكم خائفون عليّ،
كي لا أصاب بالصدمة.
لكني صُدمتُ منذ الثالثة من عمري،
حين وجدنا أبي
محروقًا في البيت
بالفوسفور.

They did not let me hold my brother’s bones.
They did not allow me to approach the body either.
I was screaming, while they were screaming back:
“Don’t do that, please don’t look!”

So they forced me not to look,
for the last time,
for the farewell glance.

They did not allow me, fearing the horror of the scene.
But I told them:
It would still be beautiful,
even if my brother were nothing but bones.

Please, do not do the selfsame thing
when we find the body of my other brother.
Please, do not.

I know you are afraid for me,
afraid that I might be shocked.
But I was already shocked at the age of three,
when we found my father
burned in the house,
by phosphor .

✍️ ©️ Amira Atiya Abu Al-Husain

About the author

Amira Atiya Abu Al-Husain (b. 2004, Rafah, Gaza Strip) is a Palestinian student and emerging writer. She is currently pursuing studies in Translation at the Islamic University of Gaza, with the support of the initiative Academics4Gaza. Her academic and literary work focuses on the themes of resilience, memory, and the preservation of Palestinian voices under conditions of war and displacement.

Amira’s life has been deeply marked by the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. At the age of three, during the 2008 Al-Furqan war, she lost her father in an Israeli bombardment with white phosphorus that struck their family home. The experience left a lasting imprint on her early childhood and shaped her understanding of loss, trauma, and injustice.

Despite her profound personal hardship, Amira has turned to writing as a form of resilience and expression. For her, literature is not only a personal outlet but also a collective voice of resistance and humanity. Through her studies and creative work, she aspires to share the lived experiences of Gaza with the wider world, ensuring that its stories, suffering, and enduring spirit are remembered.

The Diary from Gaza

A Glimmer of Hope Amidst the Rubble

For two years, Amira Atiya Abu Al-Hussein chronicled her life in Gaza—days marked by resilience, fleeting moments of beauty, and the constant shadow of war.

Convinced one day that the worst was about to happen, Amira entrusted her diary to her tutor—asking him to preserve it “so the world would know.” That tutor, now the curator of this book, ensures that her voice reaches beyond the confines of Gaza.
In this powerful ebook, her words unfold as both diary and testimony: poetic fragments capturing human hope and sorrow, alongside stark notes that bear witness to life under siege.

Through her lens, readers see the everyday reality of Gaza—children playing among ruins, families gathering despite fear, the silent strength of a people who continue to live, love, and dream under relentless military pressure. Complemented by photographs that speak as much as her words, this diary offers a rare, intimate portrait of existence where tragedy and humanity are inseparable.

The Diary from Gaza is more than a record of survival; it is a testament to endurance, dignity, and the power of storytelling in the darkest of times.

Extract from the book:

Why Me, From Within the Darkness?

What had my three-year-old done,

kneeling before a lifeless body,

its scent heavy with phosphorus?

Did she deserve this?

Why were we not like the other children of the world?

Playing with toys,

instead of gathering the scattered limbs of my father.

Sitting in the light,

instead of being imprisoned in darkness

with only a faint glow to cling to.

I feel rage—

why me?

Do I deserve this fate?

What sin has this child committed?

لماذا أنا من وسط الظلام؟

ماذا فعلت طفلت الثلاث أعوام أمام جثة هامدة ،

كان مسكها رائحة الفسفور ؟ هل تستحق؟

لماذا لم نكن كباقي أطفال العالم ؟

ألعب في الالعاب بدلاً من جمع أشلاء أبي

أجلس في النور بدلاً من حبيسة الظلام مع ضوء خفيف

أشعر بالغضب لما أنا ؟

هل أستحق ؟

ما ذنب هذهِ الطفلة ؟

أميرة ابو الحصين

From the introduction by Fabio Carbone

The night Amira’s diary came out of Gaza

I will never forget that night. The night when I receive this diary, entrusted me to share with the world. In that day, amidst the bombings and blackouts, Amira sent me a message from Gaza:

“I want to entrust you with my memories. I don’t know what will happen to me, but the world needs to know.”

I remember reading those words with a heavy heart and a deep sense of responsibility. What you are about to read is the result of that trust.

There were countless nights when, while working at this book and reviewing the messages, photos, and voice notes that Amira sent me, I found myself unable to hold back the tears. The stories, the faces, the blood, the screams… I wept; I gasped.

Sometimes it was suffocating. Literally. People closed to me often begged me to stop, fearing for my mental health: “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” they told me many times. But in the depth of that despair, there was only one thought that pulled me back: “I’m here, safe and warm, in my apartment in the UK. While they are there, inside this hell, with no way out. How could I even think of stepping away?” That guilt, that unbearable imbalance, became my compass. I had no choice but to continue.

This diary was not written with an audience in mind. It is raw, intimate, and sparingly honest, and as an editor, I chose to preserve these very qualities. It walks us through the daily life of someone trapped inside a catastrophe, torn between fear and hope, faith and despair, longing and resistance. Through her eyes, we glimpse a Gaza the headlines cannot show.

This ebook is available from selected sellers: