My dear, this is not a fictional story,
But one filled with gory.
It was the bleak November,
When death couldn’t be any nearer.
To stay away from bombing’s wrath,
We sheltered in a UNRWA school’s path.
A rocket, for us, caused damnation.
From this horror, there’s no salvation.
The sky turned into red—
From the blood of the dead.
Bodies from head to toe,
Torn, with nowhere to go.
Above a gray field, all is shattered,
And people’s faces deeply battered.
With blood mixed with dust,
They lie on the ground, unjust.
A brain on the wall is fastened,
Arms with legs on the tent dispersed.
In a prone, a little girl sat,
Prostrated is her father in her sight.
A head without a body—
That was what remained of her daddy.
With fixed, white, open eyes she’s gazing.
The true shape of humanity—fading.
From his head, blood is torrential.
“Nadal!” was bleeding from his skull.
Thrown aside, with his eye bulged,
With no one to treat him—he is another victim slaughtered.
A boy leaping to survive without a hinge,
Nowhere to hide, nowhere to dodge.
A shell hit Jihad’s belly, shredded his liver,
And no one is their savior.
“Oh God, my mother!” Abdullah screamed.
Among the bodies, we searched.
Amid them, my grandmother—with a shell in her knee.
I knew then there was nowhere to flee.
Holding her hand, I cried, “Thank God! Let’s run!
For here, we can’t anymore endure, or carry on.”
Faint was her voice: “I can’t. I am injured.”
“People are torn. Stand with me! Let’s flee!” Abdullah cried.
With her hands, she unveiled her garment.
Bloodied are her pants—we’re incapacitated.
On his shoulder, he held her.
A cart I found to move her.
In the middle, she was put.
With injured and martyrs, the cart is filled.
We tried to get her to the hospital’s gate,
But the tank rolled in—we couldn’t risk our fate.
The tank was approaching with a killing intent.
Its aim is to destroy wherever it went.
We withdrew, entered a house as a guest.
“A water, for you I plead,” that was my request.
Kind people they were—gave us what we need,
Touched us with their solicitude indeed.
Told us with fear, “In the school there is a succorer.”
Went to the school and stayed in the slaughter.
That night,
We slept in blood’s red light.
“Ow! Anyone! Come and rescue us!”
For they are amputated,
And on the ground devastated.
Above us, F-16s were roaring,
Quadcopters hovered, death adoring.
A tank appeared in the night’s pale glow,
An airstrike loomed below.
Jihad, from the shell, is screaming.
Nadal is bleeding and dying.
My grandmother is crippled.
Were you in my shoes—
What would you do?
Al-Fajr prayer we established.
“Martyr,” we wrote on Nadal’s chest.
Wrapped my grandmother’s knee,
In order to the south to flee.
To Nit-Salim we reached.
On the way, the dead are wrapped with red.
Burnt-out cars lined the street,
With blood’s scent rising from the driver’s seat.
Here are they.
Sitting over there.
He’s sitting over there—human like me.
The red blood that runs in his vein runs in mine.
Why does he have a weapon made to kill,
And my only right is to yell?
Armed with every weapon ever made,
Used against me—to fade.
Shrieking at a line of nearly a million,
To stop, and for the tank to move on.
Shouting while pouring his bullets,
Screaming, “Don’t worry!” after he kills.
Kidnapped—behind the tank, they are taken.
Shooting while jeeps inside are moving.
After I almost routed,
“All of you, move!” he shouted.
We reached “the safe zone.”
Again, the story was replicated.
This is not a story just ended,
But our daily life that is being repeated.
Author’s note: “Above a Gray Field” is a harrowing recollection of a fatal incident that forced me to flee south during this genocidal war—an experience I barely survived. I sought safety for myself and my family, only to realize that safety, like humanity, morality, and justice, can be illusions.
The South of Gaza was labeled a “Safe Zone,” but the horrors I witnessed there—human organs scattered on the ground, relentless violence—continue to haunt me, even in sleep.
This visceral poem rises from the ashes of the dead and bears witness to the injustice endured by Palestinian civilians. It reflects the daily reality where human life is undervalued, and death is treated as commonplace.
More than a literary work, this poem is a cry, a memory, and a fragment of a violently torn life. It confronts the reader with urgent emotion and a desperate plea for humanity, exposing death as the cruel rhythm of an endless war—where victims are not only forgotten but neglected.
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I am Fadel Kishko, a 22-year-old writer from Gaza.
