I.

I prepare some rice with water for my son and wait for him. Five years ago, when my Aamad fasted for the first time and prayed his first taraweeh, I treated him with his favorite mansaf. Now my Aamad goes to the rubbled mosques, prays five times, and I barely have anything to offer him.

I adjust my hijab and peek through the makeshift tent we are currently sheltering in.

I try to remind myself of the tiniest details of Ramadan from years ago, so that I never forget how charming Ramadan used to be.

The olive trees, the fragrance of qatayef and musakhan in the air, the kids giggling, running towards the mosques, and the laughter of loved ones echoing in the homes.

I blink away my tears as I sense the presence of someone around me. It's Arshi, my daughter, drenched in sweat, her eyes widened and her hijab hanging over her shoulders.

I feel an unexplainable tightness on the left side of my chest. It happens when bad news is delivered to me. I experienced the same kind of tightness when my husband Abdallah was bombed in Khan Younis.

Arshi breaks the silence, "Ummi, Brother is…"

I grab her by the shoulders, "Isn't Aamad in the Al-Farooq mosque? Isn't he there to pray? Where is Aamad? Where is my Aamad?"

Just before losing consciousness, I hear, "They rescued brother. There was an airstrike in Rafah. Brother was there. Ummi! Open your eyes ummi. Ummi!"

by Sara Rashid

II.

When Venus was dying, heaven wept
the planet of love was shrinking,
collapsing to the core
The mortals atop
were blinded by sulfur fumes.
My ceiling was melting and
I was floating in the kitchen
Forks and spoons clinked, the table cloth
Was flying. Dust, ashes, my eyes
Could you tell them apart?
I tried to grab on to the sink,
Looking in the mirror, grabbing on
to the sink. Looking in the mirror.
My arms wobbly, my fingernails brittle
My hair a tangled web.
The mirror looks like the person I dread(ed)
She told me stories
and many things.
I was told—
When Venus will be withering,
Mars will save us.
But there is no space left
Only gods live there.
They won't rescue us.
When Venus drew it's final breath,
I was crying in the kitchen. I wasn't
Meant to die(live) like this.

by Asmita Mehefin

III.

If I could save one woman from back in time,
perhaps I would choose her—
My Naani.
The one who wouldn't live beyond her early 30s
Who spent her adulthood in childbirth and miscarriages and pregnancy complications
And that became her life
And then her death.
Perhaps I would rescue her
And then my mother would have her mother
And a happy childhood.
Granted, then her choices
might've been different
And I would have still remained
a star in the sky—
Or maybe a twinkle
in my Naani's eyes.
Who knows.
For now,
Every year I get to live
Beyond 33
I celebrate—
For me,
For her,
And for my mother's
what-might-have-been
childhood.

by Ranya Rahim