Peace be upon you
This heart-wrenching message from Gaza is the work of poet Amal Abu Asi.
She is one of 18 Gazan writers who have contributed to a collection called, hauntingly, “Kitab al-Wasaya” – “The Book of Last Wills: Testimonies of Creative Artists from Gaza in the Face of Death”. It is due to be published in 2026 in a hardback edition with illustrations by Palestinian artists.
A Ha’aretz preview last month called it “an emotional portrait of life in the shadow of concrete existential danger” and reported that three of the authors and one of the illustrators had already been killed.
Let Amal Abu Asi’s words speak for themselves.
NWI
Peace be upon you,
This is my final message.
If you see fit to share it, I would be grateful.
If we depart, fold away our page forever.
Tear Palestine from the notebook of your memory, for you no longer need it.
Tell your friends there was once hope, and then it was extinguished.
Carry on with your lives as if we never existed—play, drink, eat, take walks, celebrate, dress up, sing, dance, do everything.
But do not ever look in your mirrors, because if you do, you will see our blood on your faces, our remains in your hands, our screams in your expressions, and our voices as smoke tracing the map of Palestine on your chests.
When we are gone, tear up the history books, and do not tell your children that there was a people who resisted for seventy-five years without losing hope, before hope itself killed them.
When we are gone, burn geography. Never tell your children that we had neighbors—Arab Muslims—whose hearts were tied to us in love, but did not understand that sometimes love kills. Do not tell them that borders drawn by the occupier, and ordered for you to guard, were the guillotine that cut the throats of your neighbors, the sword that was plunged into their backs, and the grave they were buried in.
Do not tell them you were preoccupied with your great achievements—crafting the largest tabbouleh dish, the most magnificent Maqloobe pot, the grandest mansaf with meat, the tastiest koshari dish, and the most wonderful artistic season for dance and song while they were being annihilated alone.
Celebrate often, for there will be no wailing, no crying, no horrific crimes on your children’s screens that will leave you struggling to answer their questions.
Organize a grand dinner, and don’t forget the ketchup of our blood, the pepper of our anguish, the juice of our tears, and the mon amour of our screams.
Your great burden has been lifted, forever.
—Amal Abu Asi Al-Yazji.
No statistics can have half the effect of this poem.
Why is this book not being published NOW. 2026 seems so far away, the sentiments need to be heard by the world’s public immediately.