Shall I ask a cartographer if I exist?  
Or shall I ask a doctor if I exist?

Shall I ask my neighbour if I exist?  
Or shall I ask a politician if I exist?

Shall I ask a psychologist if I exist? 
Or shall I ask a film star if I exist?

Shall I ask the BBC if I exist?

Or shall I ask my friend if I exist?

My existence is a history lesson  
in a fleeting second.

My existence is controversial  
in the age of annihilation.

Could I not exist

for the sake of existing?

“From Gaza?”  
“Oh, really?”

Each syllable is loaded  
with a thousand chapters.

In this trepidatious split-second 
my breath holds,

awaiting the delivery 
of the ultimate verdict.

Time stands still as my existence
is acknowledged, verified or denied.

My existence is not political.  
When did the universe lose me?

Why are the tanks  
rolling over me?

The flutes of the night chants
calm my grieving dance and I breathe slower.

We are not lost tribes,  
nor an extinct species.

We remain connected 
to everything alive.

Sleep comes. Tomorrow
we begin our history lessons again.

Nada Shawa was born in Gaza and can trace the roots of her clan in Palestine to the 13th century. Her family, still there, sent her to Scotland as a child for education, medical treatment and her own safety. She is a writer and a dancer and lives in Scotland. This poem comes from Indigenous Soul, Gaza and Me (Main Point Books, 2025)

Poetry submissions to thursdaypoems@gmail.com