The first time I returned to our home, or what was once our home—I noticed that one of my small cabinets in the remains of my flat was still standing, revealing itself amidst the wreckage. Inside, the edge of a stack of my books peeked out, a whisper of words that had survived! So today, I came back again, sifting through the ruins in search of the words that had endured. Clambering over the debris, I turned over shattered fragments with my hands, as though trying to unearth a part of myself—something that had withstood the loss. I wasn’t there to mourn the ruins. I was there to salvage what had endured. I found my little cabinet exactly as I’d left it. My books and notebooks lay inside, still nestled in their fragile refuge despite the violence of the shelling. I gazed at them, feeling as though they had been waiting for me all this time, steadfast in their quiet defiance. They would not surrender! The occupation fired twice over our heads—my friend’s and mine—but that didn’t stop me from taking everything: my university books, lecture slides, lesson-planning notebooks—everything I had once carried in my hands on my way to knowledge. Alhamdullah. No matter how hard they try, they cannot bury our will. They leave. We remain. And so do our words. 🇵🇸✊🏻