“Lost, but still here” is born from the depths of exile and the ashes of a homeland. Composed against the backdrop of the devastating war in Gaza—where my family remains, and where the life I once knew has been swept away—this trio is an intimate reflection on displacement. It speaks not only to my own personal shattering but to a collective, global grief; a shared sense of wandering and helplessness in these unprecedentedly dark times.

The instrumentation is deliberate. The cello anchors the piece in a deep, mourning resonance, echoing the soil and the souls of Gaza. The clarinet acts as the wandering voice of the exile, expressing the piercing anguish and disorientation of being far from home. Meanwhile, the piano provides the harsh structural reality of the present, while also offering the gentle, persistent heartbeat of memory. Together, they navigate a jagged landscape of sorrow.

Yet, as the title declares, this work is ultimately a defiant assertion of existence. To be “Lost, but still here” means that despite the destruction, the loss of everything tangible, and the overwhelming feeling of drifting, the human spirit continues to breathe. I am still here. We are still here. This music is a testament to survival, an active search for meaning in the ruins, and a plea for a future where we can finally find our way back to the light.