premonitions

& no longer knowing what's funny or what's devastating

Every spring, rare manta rays pass through the waters off Gaza’s coast. The last time I was in Gaza it was manta ray season. It was March 2023, and I was sitting across from Mahmoud at dinner and we talked playfully about this phenomenon. We talked about the fishermen’s celebrations around catching these animals and selling them in the market for a whopping 12 shekels per kilo. A contemplative, uneasy look took over my face. These are an endangered species, I said. They shouldn’t be caught and sold…

Anam, Mahmoud said without skipping a beat, Gazans are even more endangered than the manta rays.

His words hung in the air for a moment, the irony so sharp we both burst out laughing.

Exactly a year ago, on May 6th, I moved into my garden-level apartment in a lime green DC row house. It was the same day Israel began its invasion of Rafah. That night, after singlehandedly moving all my belongings, I collapsed on my mattress on the floor. Rafah was supposed to be a red line — an off limits humanitarian zone. Remember that AI-generated meme that circulated online where everyone declared ALL EYES ON RAFAH? If it wasn’t so devastating, it’d be hilarious.

On my one year anniversary of moving day, Israel announced its plans to “conquer” and occupy the Gaza Strip. I’ve only cried maybe five times since this genocide started. Yesterday was one of those days. A morning of tears and an afternoon collapse in exhaustion. Tears come so rarely for me — I’ve learned that when they come, I need to surrender. These moments of release are important for my health — they build resilience. I repeated my therapist’s words to myself while I drifted off into a delirious nap on the couch.

I feel really committed to telling the truth. To living in truth. It’s what makes it easy for me to tell people when I’ve caught feelings for them. It’s what makes it easy for me to tell people when I think they’re being assholes. It’s what makes it really hard to exist in a world where the justification for mass slaughter is built on such obvious lies. It’s what makes it really hard to exist in vague, neither-here-nor-there dynamics with another.

My hair was waist length a year ago. After a nervous breakdown brought on by traumatic stress, I cut my hair short in one of those stereotypically ceremonious ways. This year, I colored my hair with warm caramel streaks. What is it about wanting something different to look at in the mirror?

I have a call with my psychiatrist today who notoriously forgets our appointments. I chose him because his name is Moses. Felt like a fitting person to guide me through this chapter of unrelenting trauma towards a promised land that is nowhere in sight.

I texted Mahmoud yesterday in my numb, depressed state. I was missing him and I wanted to beam into his life in Gaza—to join forces in misery. Instead, he made me laugh in our text conversation. Like, laugh-out-loud kind of laugh. He’s always been a comedian. I’ve been thinking a lot about comedy recently. How one day I want to write satire. That’s my dream — to be a comedy writer. Because comedy is a beautiful vehicle for telling the truth— for expressing devastation. And I’m told I’m funny.

When people are genuinely funny, when they know how to find the humor in any situation and wield language in a way that elicits lightness in another — then when they’re being serious, it’s especially grave.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my last day in Gaza. After a bittersweet morning of goodbyes and jokes and hugs and photos, it was time for me to leave before the Erez crossing closed. I left my office and headed down the stairs. I heard my name being yelled down the hallway. Anam! I turned around. Mahmoud was standing there with one last thing to say before I left Gaza. I smirked at him, expecting him to crack one last joke.

Instead, he said: Don’t forget us, okay?