Poem by Ruba Khalid Al Faleet

Ribs Rise Like Broken Wings

There is no food.
Only the sound of hollow stomachs--
louder than the bombs,
more constant than the drones.

Our bodies have turned to shadows.
Ribs rise like broken wings,
as if our chests are trying to fly away
from what we’ve become.
Bird-boned and starving,
in a cage made of war.

Men forget their sentences halfway through.
Women tear bread into ghost-sized pieces.
And children?
They no longer play.
Even joy needs calories.
They no longer play.
Their bodies are too light to carry joy.
They sit in corners,
limbs folded like broken promises,
eyes wide,
but dulled.

Mothers stir pots filled with nothing,
and serve it with an apology.
They flavor it with song,
but the children are too tired to pretend.

The plates are empty.
So are the shelves.
So is the world, it seems--
when we call out.

We faint now--
quietly,
without drama.
It’s what happens when the body runs out
of even the will to stand.

And when the world
begins to hear
the sound of our hunger--
they rush to drown it.
They turn up the bombs
to muffle the growl of our stomachs.
They hold meetings,
not to feed us,
but to feed the illusion.
They say “ceasefire”
when they mean delay.
They say “negotiation”
when they mean nothing at all.
They choreograph hope like theater--
just enough to keep us dreaming
of bread,
just enough to keep the world quiet.
Not peace.
Not aid.
Just silence
wearing a mask.

But still,
We dream.
Because dreaming
is the last right they haven’t stolen.

In Gaza,
a loaf of bread is not a meal--
It's a miracle.
A flag.
A full declaration
that we are still here.

And when the world asks,
"What does hunger sound like?"
tell them:
it sounds like Gaza--
where even silence
is starving.

---

BIO: Ruba Khalid Al Faleet is an artist, poet, and author from Gaza. They're a member of the "Resilient Voices" project for the British Council and a member of the Gaza Poets Society (GPS).