Refaat Alareer: eternal echoes of resilience from the Gaza Strip

An Arabic version of this article has been published here.

The narratives of tranquil existence resemble one another, as Tolstoy once suggested, while each tragedy unfolds in its own distinct manner. Yet, confronted with the expanding specter of death and collective assassinations, we find ourselves compelled to turn to a few select stories infused with an iconic potential. These tales serve to articulate the lasting bitterness of loss, an enduring reality that persists without respite in the Gaza Strip to this day.

Amid these narratives, the story of Refaat Alareer emerges as one of the most emblematic in the register of Palestinian loss during this genocidal war, primarily because his very existence as an academician and a person of letters posed a challenge to the reality Israel sought to enforce. 

Refaat, a professor of English literature at the Islamic University in Gaza, was killed by the Israeli occupation forces on December 7, along with several family members, in what seemed to be a targeted assassination. To glean insights into his life story, one need only print out the multitude of posts flooding social media platforms since the night of his assassination, written by numerous friends, students, colleagues, and acquaintances from within and beyond the confines of Gaza.

In a tribute by his fellow journalist Yasser Ashour, he noted that Refaat had tirelessly tried to help out those around him through every means possible during the most challenging circumstances of this aggression, consistently reaching out to students, colleagues, and neighbors whenever he could. He inquired about their needs, displaying an unwavering commitment to care and support, in a context of abundant death and destruction coming from every direction. 

Refaat Alareer, an academic who dutifully attended every class before the total carnage caused by this war, shared in one of his lectures the driving force behind his steadfast dedication to education, both as a learner and an educator. He recounted tales from his mother, stories that underscored her determination to risk her life for the sake of attending school, despite the occupation—a commitment that nearly cost her life on one occasion. Refaat emphasized that these were the narratives he cherished, akin to the stories he would recount about his grandmother, an old woman surpassing Israel both in age and significance.

Growing up amidst the collision of languages and narratives, Refaat, much like his mother, pursued his studies in circumstances fraught with peril. He earned a Master’s degree from the University College of London in 2007 and a Ph.D. from the esteemed University of Putra in Malaysia, an experience that deeply embedded in him the belief in the obligation to serve through the dissemination of knowledge. 

Refaat was determined to return to Gaza and assumed a position to teach English literature, linguistics, and creative writing at the Islamic University of Gaza. Israel not only ordered the destruction of this institution, a pivotal establishment in a strip that has been under illegal siege for 17 years now, but also assassinated many of its prominent professors and lecturers, along with similar attacks on individuals within other universities and scientific institutions in Gaza. This pattern echoes Israel’s method of targeting doctors and surgeons following the destruction of hospitals, resulting in the loss of numerous medical professionals whose deaths spelled doom for their patients thereafter.

Refaat was aware that an impending assassination awaited him, as he was identified among Israel’s “Power Targets,” a designation established by the notorious military A.I. system generating targets for Israeli warplanes and tanks that have relentlessly bombarded Gaza since October 7, resulting in the deaths of over 20,000 civilians. Alareer stood out as a distinctive “Power Target: in the Gaza Strip because he safeguarded its stories and the narratives of its people. Mourned by a friend as one of the most influential and beloved public figures in Gazan society, Rami Abdu expressed in a tweet on X: ‘If courage were to be personified, it would be Refaat Alareer. If Palestine were to speak, it would be through Refaat Alareer. If media were to wield a weapon, it would be Refaat Alareer. If the youth were to have a guiding light, it would be Rafaat Alareer. And if the adversary were to face a conqueror, it would be Refaat Alareer.

In another lengthy testimony, Palestinian academic and Gazan compatriot Jehad Abu Salim said on “X”: 

“I’ve known Refaat Alareer since I was 17. He taught me my first English writing course. More than a teacher, he was a mentor, a friend, and he truly cared about his students beyond the classroom. His passion was the English language, but he didn’t teach it as a means of disassociating from society, as is common among many English-speaking upper and middle classes in the third world. For Refaat, English was a tool of liberation, a way to break free from Gaza’s prolonged siege, a teleportation device that defied Israel’s fences and the intellectual, academic, and cultural blockade of Gaza. When Refaat taught English to me and my friends, he ensured we read Malcolm X, or el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz, as he often reminded us to call him. He emphasized that learning a language requires understanding its culture and being critical and mindful that language is not free from questions of power and representation. Refaat’s journey in learning and teaching was filled with struggles. His life was challenging, marked by significant family losses. Yet, he persevered, fought back, and wrote back. One day, many of us, as Refaat’s students, will share parts of his story. However, today, let’s remember that Refaat has a family in Gaza mourning a loving father and husband. If we owe Refaat anything, it is to continue our fight until a ceasefire is achieved, until the destruction in Gaza ceases.”

Refaat embodied noble generosity, selflessly dedicating himself to knowledge, literature, social activism, and reading. Language constituted an essence of his being, enabling him to actualize his agency as an individual, even amidst the blockade that obstructs people’s self-fulfillment, compelling them to exist as both victims and witnesses, tasked with both experiencing death and narrating the tale of their demise.

Refaat tenaciously embraced storytelling and poetry, infusing distinct vitality into every chosen piece from the canon of English and World literature as he discussed them with his students. He undertook the responsibility of recording his lectures online, persistently determined to capture the vibrant energy that posed a challenge to the occupation. As a university professor teaching literature, he engaged in beautiful discussions with his students on themes of aesthetics, philosophy, literary theory, deconstruction, and colonialism, fostering an environment of free thought, critical inquiry, and a quest for self-discovery among numerous bright students of Gaza, who found their voices. This very atmosphere represented a threat to Israel.

Refaat, embodying the persona of the Palestinian intellectual in its simplicity with pride, a cultivated individual striving against the occupation and the perils it casts upon Palestinian existence in Gaza, recognized the imperative nature of his educational pursuits and public advocacy to capture and express the intricate beauty and value within this precarious life. This awareness prompted him to initiate the “We Are Not Numbers” campaign several years ago, tragically comprehending that it was a never-ending project and that the multitude of tragic narratives in Palestine defies comprehensive documentation.

In the initial phase of this war, initiated by the occupation in a manner reminiscent of the “final solution” over Gaza, death drew near Refaat, a father of six children, and those surrounding him in the northern Gaza Strip. While observing the nearby bombardments from his home, he wrote on X that it might mark his final day. Despite the imminent peril of death, Refaat resisted it with every means at his disposal: by writing, striving to refute Israeli narratives and propaganda, and supporting the resilience of the people within his reach. He persistently aided his neighbors, providing essential necessities such as water, bread, food, shelter, and even money, epitomizing the role of a genuine organic intellectual.

On December 4, Refaat wrote again on his account on X: “We might not survive this dawn. I wish I were a freedom fighter, so I could confront the invading Israeli genocidal aggressors in my neighborhood and city.” Death tragically claimed him that dawn, and he acknowledged that his pen, the sole weapon he vowed to employ if the opportunity arose, ultimately guided him toward this imminent fate. It was a fate he foresaw and readied himself for by persistently documenting life in Gaza, a life that Israel was resolute in obliterating.

Refaat harbored a profound aspiration — to change his world through teaching poetry, literature, and writing. He aimed to collect the fragmented yet interconnected tales of Gazans alongside his own narrative, to safeguard their stories, voices, and identities from slipping into oblivion. Refaat Alareer pursued this in the most admirable and honorable manner until the final moments of his life. He firmly believed that writing serves as a testimony, a lasting remembrance that endures beyond us, in spite of the occupation and its sophisticated war machine. That writing is a responsibility to ourselves and the world — that Gaza “writes back” as much as it fights back, because “the power of imagination is a creative way to construct a new reality. Gaza writes back because writing is a nationalist obligation, a duty to humanity, and a moral responsibility.” 

Here is the final poem composed by Refaat before his death:

If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself—
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up
above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale.