“Al Shaer’s chronicle creates visions of a future, by way of communicating his experience of daily genocide, but also by calling for and reaffirming the impactful ways in which solidarity can resound the call for liberation.” — From Nasrin Himada’s Foreword

A daybook by Palestinian poet, editor, and curator Mahmoud Al-Shaer, A Year on the Abyss of Genocide is comprised periodic updates following Al-Shaer’s displacement and eventual return throughout a year in Gaza. Navigating self-reflection and public appeal for survival, A Year on the Abyss of Genocide is a work of dignity and intense introspection, and Al-Shaer’s poetic prose defies the spectacle of suffering, focusing on deep psychological states as he vacillates between despair, numbness, and hope.

Previously immersed in Gaza’s arts milieu, including at the helm of Gallery 28 in Rafah before it was destroyed by Israel, and programming at Al Ghussein Cultural House in Gaza City, in addition to publishing Magazine 28, Al-Shaer’s world was inexorably altered when his young family was displaced from the home he had spent years building. A Year on the Abyss of Genocide recounts the longing for Al-Shaer’s home, his gallery and cultural spaces, as it narrates his ongoing displacement, deep concerns for his children, and his repeat thwarted efforts to reunite, alongside his wife and daughter, with his young son and his mother in Turkey. His longing for his son, who had travelled to that country for medical treatment, leads him to reconsider his own father’s absence from his childhood after being killed by Israeli settlers. At the end of each of Mahmoud’s entries, he adds his appeal to the world outside of Gaza, a refrain that resounds increasingly through the text.

With an foreword by Palestinian curator and writer Nasrin Himada, and an afterword by Palestinian antiracism scholar Fadi Ennab, A Year on the Abyss of Genocide begins with an editor’s note from Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg editor Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, who met Al-Shaer through the Palestine Festival of Literature in 2023.

Excerpts from A Year on the Abyss of Genocide

Day 110
January 25th, 2024

Dear Friends and Supporters,

It has been eleven days after the hundredth since the war started, surpassing the worst nightmares one could imagine. If I were to describe the worst nightmares, it would be search for safety. I built a home, sought reassurance and finding none, got married, and brought twins into this world—Nai and Majd—continuing my quest for safety and finding none. I embarked on a journey to find reassurance by constructing beacons of hope and life within this besieged and threatened place. Literature and the arts have served as motivators to confront the conditions of this besieged place. Look at Magazine 28 and Gallery 28.

Speaking of reassurance, all I ask for is a patch of green by the roadside where I can stretch out, gaze at the sky without fear of a strike that could end my life and the lives of my loved ones.

My name is Mahmoud. My wife is Hadil, and our children are Nai and Majd. We are an
entire world with stories to share about our lives. We don’t just seek support for this campaign; we ask you to exert pressure wherever possible to stop this war that threatens what is left of our lives.

I cannot thank you enough for your ongoing efforts.

Mahmoud

Day 238
June 1st, 2024

My Dear Friends, Supporters, and Followers,

It has now been four weeks since I fled my home, escaping a dangerous combat zone, as the army labeled it in their flyer dropped over our heads.

Four weeks now, and I don’t feel that I left the house as a physical place; rather, I left a part of myself when I fled, seeking safety for myself and what remains of my family, my wife Hadeel and my daughter Nai.

Four weeks now, outside the house, 243 days outside the context of life. I have come to know the time and path I need to get drinking water, and I know the way to the places where I can get internet to check on Majd and communicate with you.

I have no directions; it’s just the water to the west, the Mediterranean Sea, which is bounded by warships.

I have no directions; I came from the east to the farthest point of land towards the west. The army prevents me from going south, east, north.

I have no directions; tanks fire their shells everywhere. The safe zone is the same as the dangerous combat zone a little while ago, or in a little while.

I have no directions; the gray rises from the ground, covering the expanse of the south, the expanse of the east, the expanse of the north.

I have no directions; the blood of victims flies near me, and I am powerless, homeless, without shelter.

I have no directions; the war feeds on my dignity, the war consumes my resources, the war captures the future, the war kills the present and postpones my emotions.

I have no directions; I feel nothing; I don’t notice how I speak words whose meaning I don’t feel.

Wish us peace and don’t lose hope in your ability to stop this war. Your voice is important, and I urge you to speak out and spread the word about what’s happening here again and again.

Mahmoud

Day 328
August 30th, 2024

Dear Friends and Supporters,

I don’t say this out of ingratitude, nor am I unaware of the blessings I have or the tools at my disposal, but I am tired. Is it okay for me to admit that I am tired?

I do not say that I am ungrateful for the fact that Majd was saved by being able to leave Gaza with my mother, or that I am willing to accept his separation from his mother, sister, and me in exchange for his survival. I do not say that I am ungrateful, nor do I resent the situation, but I am in pain—pain from not being able to hold their hands, to support them in whatever they need. Pain from not being able to carry Majd in my arms, walking with him down the hospital corridors, looking out through windows onto a life that is still waiting for us.

When we still had a healthcare system (even under siege), Majd once spent five days in the Al-Makassed Hospital undergoing an endoscopy and variceal banding for his esophageal varices, a condition resulting from a blockage in the portal vein. This was the diagnosis he returned with from Jerusalem. At that time, he had not yet forgotten my presence and my support in his journey of care and healing.

Today, during a call with my mother, she asked him, “Do you love Baba?” He replied, “No.” “Do you love Mama?” Again, “No.” “Do you love Nai?” “No.” “Who do you love, then?” He said, “I love Grandma Aida,” and then, “You’re my love, Grandma, and that’s it.” He’s just three years old, and while I don’t begrudge him the blessing of being in Ankara, it is profoundly painful. Especially when we are facing closed doors trying to get my brother Mohammad a visa to enter Turkey from Egypt. This visa requires an invitation from AFAD, detailing the necessity of his presence as a companion for my mother and Majd. There is no other way, as Palestinians who have managed to reach Egypt do not have residency permits that would allow them to move freely.

Whenever I reflect on raising Nai and Majd, who are twins born on October 11, 2021, I think of my own childhood growing up without a father. What feelings, details, and moments can I give to Nai that I cannot give to Majd? Everything I cannot give to my son Majd, I myself missed growing up without a father. Every word Nai learns from me that Majd does not is a loss. Every gesture, every dance, every smile, every desire to play, every moment of walking outside or looking out from windows and balconies to greet the sea, the moon, the sun, the trees, and the tents—every experience I share with Nai but not with Majd feels like a loss to me.

The situation in Ankara is dire. Majd’s condition worsened again this morning; he suffered another bleed from the esophageal varices. The bleeding has been controlled, but he will need to remain in intensive care for a week. Meanwhile, my mother must begin her chemotherapy sessions.

If you have any ideas or suggestions that could help us, please share them.

Please continue to offer your support. Your words give me strength and hope.

Mahmoud