Layla Salma is a Palestinian poet and translator from the Gaza Strip. She writes from within tents and under bombardment, where language becomes a means of survival and a vessel for memory. Her poetry captures the details of daily life under genocide, forced displacement, and famine, giving voice to those who have been silenced. Her writing is not a luxury, it is resistance. Her poetic testimony is an attempt to preserve what remains of memory amid the rubble. Dreaming of surviving this genocide, Layla hopes to pursue graduate studies in journalism, to expand her tools of storytelling and advocacy, and to continue documenting truth not only through poetry, but through the power of the written word in all its forms.
You can read After the Shade Fell in the October 2025 issue.
Would you like to tell us a little bit more about your poem? For instance, how or why you wrote it, or perhaps provide some extra context?
When I wrote this poem, it had been a week since our most recent displacement. We had set up our tents on a street next to a piece of land filled with grapevines. At sunset, I would peek through the gaps between the metal and fabric fences to look at them. That sight triggered a wave of nostalgia, back when I had a warm home, its rooftop covered with grapevines. Now, all I have is a tent that resents me, a slit in the fence, and a taste of grapes I can barely remember.
How do you revise your work?
After writing a poem, I deliberately leave it alone for a couple of days and try to forget it. When I come back to it, I ask myself: which parts still make me feel something? Those are the ones I keep, because they came from something true. As for the parts that no longer move me, I give them a second chance, and sometimes I cut them out completely. What’s left is a final check for grammar, language, and punctuation.
As a poet, what does creative success or achievement look like for you?
For me, success and achievement mean being able to lay my head on the pillow at night with a clear conscience, knowing that, in the face of everything we go through, I did something. That I didn’t let myself or my people down. If I’m at peace and proud of what I did, then that’s enough. No amount of fame, money, or prestigious awards could bring me the same happiness as knowing I did what I could.
How or where or with what does a poem begin?
A poem usually begins when I start missing life, or when I look around and everything around me pulls me to feel deeply. I reflect on every seemingly normal detail, only to find it not normal at all, something that must be documented. It becomes clear that the words want to be written. Not writing them would feel like betrayal, a betrayal of myself, my people, my country. A betrayal of every silenced and crushed voice.
How do you make space for poetry in your daily routine?
The term “daily routine” is a luxury a displaced girl living through genocide simply doesn’t have. I wake up to evacuation orders, missiles, or even just news that “there’s no water today”, any of which can throw my entire day into chaos. But I write whenever I can steal a little bit of time from life.
What are you reading or watching or listening to lately that intrigues or inspires you?
The reality I live is harsher than any literary or artistic work could ever depict. I don’t need to read to be moved, I just look around me.
Have you ever received advice (or has there been something you’ve learned on your own) about writing or revising poems that has made you a better poet? What was it?
Never be ashamed of something you’ve felt. The strength of your work will match the depth of your emotion, no matter how simple the subject may seem.