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The untold ghazal of Gaza  


The holy ghost of the weekend stripped me of my spine, making me the void creature of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein as I look at the photograph of my not-so-long lost friends.

I was one of those lucky ones who got to leave the country.
But we were students. Scholars. Were we? We were. Still…

We had our hands clasped as if to never let go,
identical white scarfs and black dresses—for a protest of the past.

But those were happy moments, you know, that photograph was a happy moment as we had 
oxygen to breathe, land to walk, home to live, water to drink, universities to study…they are still alive, maybe.

Happiness is short-lived they say, I guess, that's why our clear sky turned into the cinnamon
and then into a violent storm but that's not it.

Our days were taken, degrees perished, studies wasted, knowledge questioned, and thrown into a dystopian world when they dumped missiles on us just like they dumped bullets in our heads, just like they dumped knives in our chests.

If my dead soul could talk it would have told you about the streams of blood, the shredded body parts, the tears, and the vanishing souls of the living people.

But as students, we lost more lives than limbs, like we do every year, upon year, upon year, upon year. And yet, it's not over.

My friends? They became the alumni of people who never leave, whilst,
I became the alumnus of people who lived as dead.


AGNA is an Indian Muslim who likes to read, gaze at nature in awe

and watch Christmas movies for inspiration and escaping reality. She

has been published in a few magazines and anthologies here and

there one of them being Viraj Record Holder. You can always find her

lounging on her Instagram page.

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