The Library and the Massacre: A Novelist's Testimony on the Destruction of Libraries in the Gaza Strip

I often dreamed of living my life surrounded by books, moving from one to another – diving into a dictionary then exploring an encyclopedia, searching through indexes, and skimming through countless references each day. A page here would captivate me, a chapter there, perhaps a cover or an ending elsewhere. So, I decided to create a personal library in my home, one that would serve as a legacy for my children, my neighbors, and anyone in my community interested in reading and writing. My journey began during my university years when I started collecting books, particularly literary works, as I embarked on my path as a writer. Today, I practice narrative writing professionally and have published nine works, including short story collections and novels. Many of these have been translated into multiple languages and reprinted in several editions. My latest novel, Clothes That Miraculously Survived, published by the Arab Institute for Research and Publishing in Beirut, envisions a devastating massacre through the interplay of two narrative worlds: a shelter and the memoirs of a former Minister of Culture.

My home library continued to grow, as did libraries across other homes and throughout the city. Cultural life flourished, with cafés transforming into intellectual hubs. One such space was the Cordoba Culture, which I established eight years ago as a platform for intellectuals and literary figures in Gaza. Similarly, the Shaghaf Cultural Initiative brought together university writers, holding meetings at venues like the Palmera Restaurant, Cordoba Café, Masarat Center, and the House of Wisdom. At times, it felt as though Gaza itself had become a sanctuary – a vibrant center for intellectuals seeking their identity through colors and words. This was especially evident in the Shababeek for Contemporary Art, a venue showcasing art exhibitions by both established and emerging artists. These efforts were part of a larger mission: to create a legacy, to affirm an identity that the occupation seeks to erase from the collective memory of the world. Yet surely, those who paint or write poetry cannot be erased – so how could those who carry a rifle to fight?

Several years ago, the occupation destroyed the National Library in Gaza City, razing its towering structure to the ground. With its destruction, the dream of creating a repository for both ancient and modern Palestinian works was obliterated. The site that once promised to preserve a rich cultural heritage became little more than a platform for displaying political party flags and leaders’ portraits. Yet, this cultural devastation was not an isolated incident; it was preceded by a systematic siege on books. While Palestinians had anticipated restrictions on food, fuel, and travel, few realized the occupation would also besiege their minds.

Books were imprisoned, their circulation banned, and their entry blocked.

The global silence on Palestinians’ right to read – a basic freedom enjoyed elsewhere – only deepened the loss. Libraries, stripped of vital collections, struggled to replace missing titles. The acquisition of new works, in an attempt to provide access to the latest knowledge and literary productions, became a desperate reliance on the internet and modest printing efforts, barely sustaining access to knowledge and literary expression.

And when Hamas assumed power, the Gaza Strip became besieged, enduring a series of Israeli assaults and military operations that claimed the lives of thousands of this bereaved population. The infrastructure lay in ruins, leaving Palestinians preoccupied, consumed by the struggle to rebuild amidst destruction, while the occupation methodically devoured the West Bank – Judaizing land, erecting new settlements for a people brought to a land with deep-rooted, native owners since the dawn of history.

In Gaza, Palestinians endure with very little. Internal political divisions have further marginalized the already neglected role of culture, which the Palestinian Authority allocates less than one percent of its budget. Islamic movements in Gaza have displayed indifference in cultural initiatives, even within their own institutions – an approach that, regrettably, mirrors that of official Arab and Palestinian governments.

I remember vividly August 2018, when the occupation destroyed the Said al-Mishal Center. A space that was once a sanctuary for dreamers – young people seeking beauty through painting and poetry, cultural evenings, theater performances, film screenings, and book signings. Its destruction reduced more than just the building to rubble – it crushed the spirit of a community and extinguished the dream of a special cultural haven.

Home to a large theatre and multiple exhibition halls, the Center was where we witnessed countless artistic and theatrical performances by Gaza's celebrated artists, signed our literary works, and collaborated with the Press House, which nurtured young talents. Yet, we found ourselves mourning not only the loss of the Press House but also its founder, the late martyr Bilal Jadallah.

Then the massacre came, extinguishing the very dream of life itself – beyond the dreams of writing or painting. The occupation deliberately targeted human existence, not just Palestinian identities, committing acts of genocide unparalleled in modern history. Even stones and trees were razed, leaving the people of Gaza grappling with a single, desperate concern: preserving their lives and families. But, even this modest aspiration became an impossible dream under the relentless shadow of planes raining barrel bombs on fragile homes in overcrowded refugee camps.

Homes seemed to lean on one another, bleeding and mourning entire lives, dreams, and memories.

Each fragmented ruin tells a story: That crumbled wall once held a photograph of a young man who lost a leg in the war. That patch of paint was chosen after a wife insisted on a shade of gray she admired in an old Egyptian film. Those scribbles on the wall belonged to children dreaming of becoming doctors and engineers. That tattered painting was crafted by a child who had won second place in a school competition on children’s rights. That shattered frame held the bachelor’s degree of a young man who fled south seeking safety, only to be killed by a soldier’s bullet. And those scattered kitchen utensils were purchased after countless arguments between a husband and wife over a paycheck too small to meet the household’s needs.

These images cascade, but for the ordinary, disoriented citizen searching desperately for food to feed their children, such destruction becomes a blur. The loss of the Gaza Municipal Library means little when survival itself hangs in the balance. Food – any food – becomes the sole focus amidst a suffocating siege in northern Gaza, where even animal feed had run out.

I remember, during that grim chapter in human history, how I joined my neighbour – the so-called ‘thief’ – to scavenge through the abandoned homes of those who had fled south in search of safety. We searched for anything – an old can of tuna, a handful of flour, even dog food.

Together, we went to the northern beach area, the ominous buzz of drones and the quadcopters overhead. We recited the shahada, weaving through alleys and the rubble of shattered homes to reach a house we knew. Entering through a gaping hole in the wall, we climbed cautiously to the first floor as artillery fire thundered nearby, targeting other ‘thieves’ scavenging for food for their children. My body trembled with terror, but my friend said: ‘Don’t be afraid; you’ll make it back to your kids. You’re here to feed them, not to steal.’

As a university lecturer and director at a respected institution, I found myself silently pleading with God not to let me die in the home of a family I would never meet. My friend suddenly shouted with joy: ‘Come here!’

I hoisted sacks of bread and flour while he carried a plastic container of clean water – a rare treasure in Gaza, where Israel had bombed desalination plants, leaving the available water unfit even for animals.

We fled as the drones circled above, quickening our steps toward the displacement shelter in Al-Shati Camp. My friend laughed, and said: ‘Don’t worry, they know we’re here to steal, not to resist.’

We returned victorious. I carried 15 kilograms of flour – a triumphant knight with enough to sustain his family for a month. Others died searching for food. My cousin, Ahmed Mohammed Al-Ghoul, was one of them. He vanished, his 31-year old body discovered only after the occupation withdrew months later. By then, it was barely recognizable, riddled with shrapnel and decomposed. Perhaps animals had scavenged his remains, as they had with so many martyrs of this genocide. Or perhaps the bombs had ripped him apart, just as they had ripped apart our homeland.

Between my grandmother, who sought refuge at the UNDP headquarters and found no water to drink until my uncle placed a container under the air conditioner’s drainage pipe to collect the trickle, and Gaza Municipal Library, where people stole books to light fires for cooking, the culture of civilization and humanity crumbled. The beleaguered citizen lost faith in both Arabism and Islam amidst deafening popular and official Arab silence and a dubious global complicity.

Books no longer held a place amid the bloodshed. The mask of the silent Arab elite had fallen, leaving behind women who had lost their femininity, burning those letters and words to cook meager meals – the wild herbs we gathered from fields soaked in gunpowder, blood, and remnants of scattered missiles.

Amidst this, I returned home and found my library – whose collection had taken over twenty exhausting years to assemble – reduced to ashes. Despite this devastation, I tried to document the scene, photographing the books crying on the soil of a city drowning in its grief.

As I stood there, a group of children, robbed of their childhood, approached. No longer did they go to school, watch television, or play in parks and playgrounds. Instead, they worked, transporting food, gathering firewood, and queuing for bread. When they saw the scattered books, they exclaimed joyfully, ‘these are perfect for lighting the fire’. They carried the books home with them, triumphant in their defeat.

I, too, left my house, wandering between locations in search of food. On my way, I passed the Rashad Shawa Cultural Center, once the largest and finest venue for grand events in Gaza. I stopped for a picture at its destroyed entrance, surrounded by memories of Diana Sabbagh’ library, the vast halls, and walls that had whispered their connection to letters and ideas.

From there, I continued walking to the bookstore of my friend Samir Mansour, a cornerstone of Gaza’s cultural scene. This bookstore had championed the works of young Gazan authors, bringing their voices to the world through participation in Arab book fairs. But when I arrived, I was confronted with a scene of utter devastation – a vision of hell. The books were reduced to ash, just like those of my friend Atef Al-Durra, the founder of Dar Al Kalima for Publishing. He had fled to the southern part of the Strip, leaving behind a lifetime’s work to burn alongside the homes of his neighbours.

Between the books and libraries, a realization took hold among this Palestinian: liberation is impossible as long as the minds of the young remain occupied. The enemy knows this too, which is why they burn our books, kill the heroes of our stories, and even steal our identity – claiming our heritage as their own. Traditional dishes like shakshuka, falafel, and hummus are presented as Israeli, part of an erasure of our cultural essence. Yet they fail to grasp that the Palestinian spirit is indomitable. As long as our language survives, we endure.

Gaza’s writers have turned to their words during this massacre. Through diaries and texts published in newspapers, magazines, and books, they recount the suffering. The Ministry of Culture’s recent publication, Writing Behind the Lines, documents the massacres committed by the occupation, as does the book The Commandments, which I had the honor of supervising.

The targeting of Gaza’s historical sites only deepens the pain. The enemy’s attacks go beyond the present, striking at our very roots: the Great Omari Mosque, Qasr al-Basha, Sayed al-Hashim Mosque (named after Prophet Muhammad’s grandfather, peace be upon him), the Byzantine Church, the historic Al-Ghussein House, Al-Saqqa House, and countless other irreplaceable landmarks, that cannot be confined to a single testimony. It is as if they are declaring: ‘We will crush you at your roots.’ Yet they underestimate the Spartan-like resilience of the Palestinian people – unyielding and enduring, as Hemingway wrote in The Old Man and the Sea: ‘A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’

So how can the Palestinian, the rightful owner of this land, ever be defeated, especially now, as the world begins to awaken to the savage brutality of the colonial Zionist occupation?

Not long ago, I visited Shababeek for Contemporary Art, where I often sat with friends Majed Shala, Shareef Sarhan, and Basel Elmaqosui, the founders of this important artistic space. Upon arrival, I found the paintings I had once hoped to adorn my new home with completely ruined – torn and saturated with rainwater – after the occupation wiped the area off the map during the incursion near Al-Shifa Hospital. Yet, the inspiring part of this story is that Basel, Majed, and Sherif refuse to stop painting, even in their places of displacement. More than that, they are teaching children to paint, just as I once did with boys and girls at the Asma School run by UNRWA, which had become a shelter after the school year ended without education and over 15,000 students were martyred.

I still remember Sumayya Ghazi Haniyeh, 16 years old – may she rest in peace – who used to come to school asking for recommendations from the library that still functioned at the shelter. She would listen eagerly as I spoke about literature and writers, soaking in every word. But Sumayya’s fate mirrored that of thousands of girls in Gaza. She was killed when an F-35 strike obliterated her family’s home. Even as I write this testimony, her body remains buried under the rubble. Sometimes I find myself visiting the site, as if to tell her more stories, longing to hear her ask me once again, ‘Why didn’t I become a superhero like the characters in your stories, Yousri?’.

In the camp, where rubble and sewage water chokes the streets, where the stench of decomposing bodies clings to the air, it’s nearly impossible to pass a child who doesn’t engage you in profound conversations about survival – discussing how to cook without wood or gas, when the city has run dry of both.

They speak with a startling practicality, paying little mind to the blood in the streets, the trash piled high, or the omnipresent hum of planes that has become a permanent fixture in our memories.

And then, they suddenly ask, ‘When do you think the war will end?’.