Elegy for Dima el Haj
Love is a garden,
Only blooming for those
Who keep its sacred vow.
The Spring has passed,
But the roses held no glow,
Their scents shrouded in absence.
Your name no more,
No longer echoes in the breeze.
Your eyes knew of sorrow,
Of what Israel can do to the blossoms,
And now you are
The sorrow in mine.
No heart for my ache.
As I return,
Carrying the shimmer of the spring,
You were
The sigh of an orange tree,
The hymn of faith, and love, and joy
I kneel to your grave
To trace your warmth
Among the stones.
To your soil I drop,
Two tears,
And a rose.
I left the rose behind me, weeping.
Death is a season with no bloom.
I cannot fathom what has no face,
I cannot curse the void forever,
Nor plant my fury in the dust.
Rest in peace, Deema
I will not forgive those who murdered you,
Who murder the children, who murder the bloom,
Nor pardon the silence
That let them.
I left a rose behind me, weeping.
It stayed to mourn,
Alone.
In memory of Dima El Haj
Dima El Haj, whom Israel killed at the age of 29, was a WHO staff member. She was an
environmental activist, and a master’s graduate from Glasgow. She was by international means, a
civilian, twice over, a woman who committed her life to the preservation of life.
Yet, On November 21, 2023, a single Israeli airstrike bombarded Dima’s family house near the
shores of Nuseirat in the middle of the Gaza strip. And there, she was killed collectively with her
husband, infant baby, and 50 other family members all seeking refuge under one roof.
Dima would have insisted that I start, not with her institutional labels, and yet with the title that
should have been enough to stop her murder: a human being, a civilian, an indigenous Palestinian
simply existing on her land. She would have thought her death was no more exceptional than that of
tens of thousands of Palestinian civilians who Israel deemed disposable all together, as the world
watched with apathy and a performative restraint.
Today I write of a friend whose calm carried a steadfast grace, unmoved by pretense, untouched by
noise.
I met Dima when I was 16, at AMIDEAST Gaza, where we studied English together for two years. In
class, Dima spoke of values over personal success, community, Gaza’s Sea, and Jerusalem, when
she was still an undergraduate student. She believed in me, and embraced me with sisterly warmth,
joyfully, and without conditions. She welcomed me with a beautiful smile that cracked the sorrow in
her eyes, one that I still carry with me. No wonder I showed up early to class for two years just to sit
besides her. We taught English together for a year in Deir al-Balah, giving teenagers from rural
communities the chances we barely had.
She introduced me to her family, one of Gaza’s most respected. Her father, Dr Abullatif el Haj, is a
revered surgeon, a professor of medicine, and Deputy Minister of Health, a man of deep integrity.
Her mother, a UN community servant, who cherished me like one of her own in the few times we
met. Her brother, also professor, with stoic presence, was also killed in the airstrike. Her other
brother, Qassam, a brilliant medical student with a great sense of humor, was also killed in the
strike. Leen el Haj, her younger sister, a gifted artist, now has to live the loss of the who made her
whole, her family, her home, in a single day. Last time I saw Dima was in 2021, in the yard of her
family’s home where we had tea and laughter. I had gone to welcome her back upon returning from
Glasgow, and and grabbed the book she bought me from there.
