A stark vow echoed in the poet’s late verse: if I must die, you must live to tell my story. Sell my belongings, buy ropes and a piece of fabric. Refaat Alarer, a Palestinian poet and English literature professor, penned these lines just before an Israeli bombardment hit the house where he sheltered in the capital. A family burial followed, with his two brothers and four nephews laid to rest. In those now widely cited lines, he spoke of white kites and a child who had lost his father, describing a moment when a head lifted to see a bird soar. He envisioned an angel returning a loved one, written on November 1.
Alarer stood as a dynamic figure in Gaza’s cultural life. His work and leadership were inseparable from the Strip, a densely populated area that endured more than 70 days of bombardment, disease, and hunger. Since 2007, his foundation nurtured new writers and poets, many of them women, helping them publish and share stories about life under siege. The Islamic University of Gaza, once a beacon of learning, has suffered damage or destruction as the conflict rages around it. Shakespearean echoes appear in his efforts, yet his real priority was to elevate voices, edit or craft new narratives by young writers about life in the enclave. The foundation he backed, devoted to developing talent, continues to empower new generations of creators.
Analysts and journalists who knew him describe his ability to mobilize people and to kindle hope in his students. He linked young artists with audiences, encouraging them to tell their stories to the world and, in practical terms, to push back the siege by sharing culture and memory. In the classroom, he was both gentle and exacting, praising merit and offering constructive critique. He lived in a climate where poets from neighboring Israel, such as Yehuda Amichai, often faced tension with the occupying reality, a reality that long predated 1967 and carried its shadows back to 1948 and the displacement of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians. Some observers see this as part of a broader pattern of erasure—a deliberate neglect of Gaza’s culture and heritage.
Dozens of dead artists
Official figures from the Palestinian Ministry of Culture in Ramallah indicate that many artists were lost during the conflict, including painters like Heba Zaqout, playwrights such as Inas al-Saqa, and poets like Hiba Abu Nada. The list likely extends to musicians, editors, photographers, and other visual and performing artists, underscoring a wider cultural toll beyond individual names. A local observer notes that the world is often shown a simplified image of Gaza’s people, portraying them as merely fighting or suffering, while the loss of poets and creators reveals a deeper attack on the culture itself. Cultural leaders warn that ongoing damage threatens a heritage that has long defined the region’s identity and resilience.
There is concern that the assault is a broader attack on memory and meaning. A Gaza-based heritage professional emphasizes that culture is not simply a collection of artifacts but a living thread that links present generations to their ancestors. The destruction of cultural sites and museums goes beyond aesthetics; it erodes the stories, records, and rituals that knit a community together. Exposed to bombardment and neglect, historical sites—centuries-old mosques, churches, markets, and baths—have suffered serious damage, with some partially or wholly ruined. The scope of loss makes it hard to gauge the full extent, yet the impact on collective memory is clear. A veteran heritage advocate likens the current events to other historical traumas where cultural symbols were targeted, a comparison that underscores the severity of the assault on Gaza’s cultural landscape.
Not only is history being damaged, but the city’s identity is under threat. Monuments once connected to Gaza’s historical narrative now lie in ruins, testaments to a brutal disruption of life and memory. Experts stress that culture has long served as a form of resistance and continuity, a way to preserve dignity under pressure. Even as museums and cultural centers face destruction, some spaces have become makeshift hubs for exhibitions, cinema, and poetry readings, offering a small beacon of light in an open-air confinement that has persisted for years. The Rashad Al-Shawa Building, once a symbol of community and Brutalist architecture, now stands in ruins.
Analysts contend that the world’s view of Gaza as merely impoverished or militarized misses the region’s rich cultural vitality. A prominent observer argues that Gaza has long been a center of intellectual life and steadfast resistance. The ongoing conflict is reshaping a narrative—one that foregrounds dispossession and statelessness, yet also highlights the enduring strength of a people who continue to create and imagine a different future.
Refaat Alarer’s poem ends not with anger or despair, but with a resolve to spark action. The closing lines call for hope and the power of storytelling to sustain a community under pressure, a reminder that literature can offer a path through devastation and a reason to persevere. The Gaza poet’s final verse stands as a testament to resilience and the enduring belief that stories can outlive violence. Citation: Palestinian cultural records and contemporaries.