Sondos Sabra is one of four Gaza-based Palestinian authors who have contributed to the forthcoming collection Voices of Resistance, expected this June. As Comma Press editors write, “Trapped in different parts of the Gaza Strip, with commitments to support different members of their immediate family, they have been recording their daily experiences with humour, strength and most of all dignity.” Here, Sabra writes, “Strange creatures now invade us, feeding on the spark of life within us.”
The Voice I Left Behind
By Sondos Sabra
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
It has been quite some time since my last letter to you. I told you about the scholarship I received and my upcoming journey into the world of international relations. I spent days wandering through the shelves of the grand library in our neighborhood, collecting books like a diver picking up pearls from the sea. Some were related to my studies, while others carried literary fragrances that nourished my soul. I joined a local club that hosts weekly debates, learning how to see the world from diverse perspectives. I felt like an ambassador of a peaceful nation, confident that formal attire suited me perfectly. I attached a group photo of my friends and me on graduation day, do you remember it?
I write to you now, but the world around me no longer feels the same. It is as if our city has fallen into a peculiar slumber, casting its shadows over us. Our once-blooming gardens have lost their charm, and we now walk on land where water has dried up, forgetting its life-giving essence. The air has grown heavier, as though an invisible hand holds its wings, preventing it from soaring. My steps feel burdened, moving in endless circles. Even the dictionaries of language have shifted, their meanings altered. The dreams I used to weave at night have turned into migrating birds that no longer know their way back.
Strange creatures now invade us, feeding on the spark of life within us. They steal half our hearts, leaving the other half bleeding. Their hunger knows no bounds. Their voices never quiet, weaving haunting melodies out of day and night that exhaust the ears. Beyond the horizon lie shadowy huts untouched by light, filled with tales of unrelenting harshness.
But, my dear companion, your old letters still pulse in my hands. Lately, an overpowering fear has gripped me, one I cannot resist. I escape it through prayer: “O Lord, O refuge of the fearful, O Helper of the oppressed,”clinging at times to a faint ray of hope that whispers to me: “Everything will come to an end soon.”
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,
This time, I write to you with my heart brimming with longing not just for you but for the version of myself who once wrote to you so eagerly. I miss that part of me I used to pour onto the page, filled with dreams and delicate words, the spirit of a child who saw the world as vast and full of opportunities.
I have changed so much, or perhaps it is the world around me that has changed. But I yearn to find my old self between the lines. I miss reading my first letters to you, those words I wrote with passion and fervor, as if sending them to a distant star in the sky.
Please, could you send me back my old letters? I need to rediscover the version of myself I used to find in each word the one who looked at the world with hopeful eyes. I want to revisit that part of me, even for a moment, to hear her voice in the words and feel her thoughts as she wrote them.
Send me back my letters, dear Daddy-Long-Legs. I need to find myself again within those pages, to breathe in the essence of what I once wrote when my spirit was closer to the light.
With enduring love,
Your daughter longing for her former self,
Sondos
Sondos Sabra 25, holds a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from the Islamic University of Gaza and is a founding member of the Shaghaf Youth Initiative, where discussions on texts and literary works are organized. She is a translator and a writer, who like Nahil Mohana, has been trapped in North Gaza since the genocide started. In March this year, three of her nieces and nephews were killed by a rocket. Her writing has appeared in Mondoweis and The New Statesman, and been performed by actress Yusra Warsama at The Barbican, London.
