"My beloved Haneen, you are the most charming rose I have ever seen in my life. Your image flows through my soul, like drops of dew on a clear spring dawn.

Whenever my heart is lazy, and you pass by it, it suddenly shakes in fervor, and in longing, like the rain transforming the dry tree branches in an oasis into a green, vivid and lively state of being.

My love for you washes my faults away, like breezy water cleaning soiled eyes. [...] Whenever a bird gallops about, searching for bits of bread in the yard we are allowed to walk in, I recall you; when a white dove spreads its wings and flies like a sail boat under the dome of the sky above our prison, I remember you.

[...] Yours is world apart from the pulse of prison, for you define innocence and compassion, and here they [the jailers] define cruelness and wickedness; you are freedom, and prison is chains, jailers and incarceration; you are beauty and love, whereas prison is hate and tear-gas; you are my longing, my nostalgia, and here is where I hope to leave without any delay.

I mostly hope to stroll with you and your mother on the sidewalk, or under the shade of trees, only to reach a small stream, where we can swallow ice-cream cones, one for me, two for mama and three, yes three for you, and a line of melted ice-cream crawls down your chin, and I burst out laughing ...."

[from another letter]

"To Haneen, my beloved daughter, who is rooted in my heart, like a fresh carnation, like a brightly-coloured bird, or like a nice dream, that I never want to wake up from. You are the boundless source of my joy, and the same time you are the constant subject of my concern and preoccupation.

Oh, how I wish to go back home, to tickle you, and to hear and to fill my eyes with your fascinating laughter; to play hide-and-seek with you, so both of us can rejoice; to feed you with my own fingers bits of fish or salted tomatoes; to share with you the enchanting beauty of a hill, covered in olive trees, where we can sit, and watch the sunset, while I tell you your favourite stories, and about my self, my past and my plans for the remaining years in my life, and to listen to your concerns, what you love, what you dislike, your friends, school, whether you like dabke [Palestinian folk dance], karate, cartoons, painting or computer games."

[from another letter]

"On your last visit, I could not but notice the wound on your face, and an overwhelming, maybe exaggerated, sense of sympathy, impotence and worry overtook me. For the following nights, your wound was all I could possibly think about, your pain, your bleeding when it occurred, and most troubling was my haunting realization that I could not be there for you, to defend you. Oh, my loved baby, I wish I were out of this filthy dump, to play with you, defend you, and teach you how to take good care of yourself. I just cannot bear your suffering."