Samir was born with a stutter, but not when he wrote.
At 19, he had never left Gaza. He had never flown in a plane, never seen a mountain, never eaten in a restaurant that wasn’t built from salvaged wood and plastic. Yet Samir knew more about the human heart than most poets twice his age. He wrote because he could not scream. He wrote because in Gaza, silence is too loud, and memory too dangerous to forget.
His poems did not rhyme. They didn’t need to. They lived in fragments — like the city around him.