Support Heba, a Writer from Gaza

To those kind enough to have landed here,

My name is Julia Choucair and I am raising funds to support Heba Al-Agha, a beautiful writer and fierce mother from Gaza.

Heba, her husband, and their two young children need our help to get their bearings in Cairo, and to support their relatives still in Gaza. After 8 months of harrowing multiple displacements, from her home in Gaza City to Khan Younis then to Rafah, Heba was able to cross into Egypt, but had to leave everything behind.

It is hard to condense the fear, pain, and grief of this involuntary journey into a GoFundMe ask. Heba´s writing speaks for itself.

Since October, she has been sharing poetry, freeform narration, diary entries, letters. and photos on her Telegram channel: https://t.me/hebalaghatalkwar.

Some translations have been published by LitHub here https://lithub.com/gaza-diaries-we-left-our-souls-at-home/ and by Arab Lit here https://arablit.org/2024/04/29/when-the-war-parts-a-poem-from-gaza-by-heba-al-agha/ and in their beautiful issue dedicated to Gaza https://arablit.org/arablit-quarterly-majalla-28-spring-2024-gaza-gaza-gaza/

You can also listen to Heba read one of her poems here, followed by readings in English, Italian, and Spanish. https://go.ivoox.com/rf/131128929

Translating Heba´s writing into English has been a profound joy, a refuge from this darkness. She takes us home to Palestine´s herbs and plants, to its female friendships, to the ordinary extraordinary details of the house she left behind, to lives both full and gutted.

I hope you are moved to support Heba and her writing. All funds collected here will be sent to her in Cairo.

With gratitude,

Heba and Julia

When the War Parts: A Poem from Gaza by Heba Al-Agha

I won’t be the same

might become a closet or a bed

a gas canister, a rug

a library

a giant lap, one long embrace.

When the war parts

I won’t find a grave to visit

for the road itself will be the graveyard

There will be no flowers to lay

as they too will have died.

No palms on graves, and no graves either.

I will stumble on a head here, a foot there, a friend’s face

on the ground, his bag carrying crumbs for the little ones.

Scattered eyes, I’ll see them everywhere

and a heart that has gotten lost, panting

will settle on my shoulder

and I´ll walk it through the rubble

this broken stone with which we were killed.

Full poem here: https://arablit.org/2024/04/29/when-the-war-parts-a-poem-from-gaza-by-heba-al-agha/