The genocide in Gaza is no doubt the worst massacre in human history. Eyes are tearful, and hearts are bleeding all over the world. This blog portrays the feelings penned down by three Palestinian poets.
When I Grow Older – A Gaza Poem
by Dr. Ramzy Baroud
To Gaza’s little angels – in heaven, and here on earth.
My name is Omar. I am 5.
Today I washed the blood of my father off the sidewalk.
He was shot in front of our home.
My mom said I did a good job.
She hugged me and cried for far too long.
Her tears were salty like the Gaza Sea.
My brother and sister are still missing under the rubble.
My mom keeps telling me to place my ear on the blocks of shattered concrete and listen carefully.
Maybe they are still alive.
Maybe they need company.
She sings them lullabies to go to sleep.
I always sing along.
It has been many days since they were gone.
I didn’t die because I stood in a long line to fetch some water.
There was none.
But mom said ‘Alhamdulilah’ that I am still alive.
She called me a miracle.
She said I am all that she has left.
I told her that someday we would get a big bulldozer, would save my brother and sister, and rebuild the house.
.. And grow a garden, with trees so big they’ll reach the heavens.
But tonight, we will sleep in a tent.
I keep dreaming of three angels.
They hover around me and sing me songs.
I jump and dance, but only in my sleep.
When I grow older, I will protect my mother from the angry men with guns.
When I grow older, I will have a son and give him my father’s name.
When I grow older, I will remove the big rocks smothering my brother and my sister.
When I grow older, I will never forget.
I will never forget.
I will never forget.
Source: RamzyBaroud.net
Dr. Ramzy Baroud is a journalist, author and editor of The Palestine Chronicle. He is the author of six books. His latest book, co-edited with Ilan Pappe, is “Our Vision for Liberation: Engaged Palestinian Leaders and Intellectuals Speak Out.” His other books include “My Father was a Freedom Fighter” and “The Last Earth.” He is a nonresident senior research fellow at the Center for Islam and Global Affairs. His website is www.ramzybaroud.net.
Poems for Gaza
by Rashida Murphy
i)
Dear Gaza
When this is over I will come to Beit Lahia and help Mosab plant strawberries for Refaat. I will bring watermelon seeds in embroidered pouches for the children. They need the distraction. I will clear ash from the stumps of smoking olive trees. We’ll set up an easel there. I will buy paints in memory of Heba. Already there are new shoots under rubble. Soon. Gaza. Soon.
ii)
Once they had homes – Jabalia, Rafah, Khan Yunis.
Once they had names – Hisham, Refaat Samar, Lubna.
Once they had families – Ommi, Baba, Seedo, Sitti.
Once they had jobs – Scholar, Poet, Gardener.
Once they had poetry, olive trees, children – once they were more than numbers.
iii)
You say the pictures aren’t real
Those children climbed under rubble
Played dead for a photograph.
That man, girl, baby, doctor – not real.
I want you to be right.
I want Gaza to unbomb herself
Unkill her children
Unearth her houses
Undo her genocide.
I want to say those pictures aren’t real.
Source: FemAsiaMagazine.com
Rashida Murphy is a writer, poet, reviewer and blogger. She has published her short fiction and poetry in various international literary journals and anthologies, Her debut novel, The Historian’s Daughter was shortlisted in the Scottish Dundee International Book Prize in 2015. Rashida has a Masters in English Literature and a PhD in Writing from Edith Cowan University. She lives in Perth and is currently working on a new novel and a collection of short stories.
At the Cliff of Death: A Poem from Gaza
by Haya Abu Nasser
What is our life but a melancholic play
on a stage of blood
with an audience of drowsy eyes?
In the background,
blues music chases the ears.
Footfalls sprint back and forth,
like a bow across violin strings.
Gloomy crowds resonate with wails:
where should we flee away
from the relentless drones?
People are escaping like shadows;
on their backs, the boulder of Sisyphus.
They are climbing the cliff of death.
Their fingers are outstretched,
reaching for the sprouting branches,
against the dark abyss.
Death is extending a hand of redemption,
with a forceful yank.
When I retract my hand,
he seizes my head and gazes into my eyes,
urging me to tread in his path.
At the cliff of death,
I see myself suspended by a noose,
swaying gracefully with the wind.
I am as free as a firefly glowing in a cave,
a smile on my azure face.
My hands are released,
like an ancient oak tree,
dancing a tango with the breeze.
My soul is an immigration ship,
where death waits by the sea,
craving more visitors.
On the other bank of the cliff,
Death stands alone.
He is dressed in a white suit,
arranging a bouquet with meticulous care,
to welcome his new bride.
Source: Mizna.org
Haya Abu Nasser is a human rights activist and writer whose family is originally from Deir-Sneid. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English literature and humanitarian sciences and worked for several non-governmental organizations in Palestine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in AGNI, Scoundrel Time, Evergreen Review, The Normal School, The Rumpus, and Guernica. After being internally displaced in Gaza four times between October 2023 and February 2024, she managed to cross the Rafah border into Egypt in early March and will go to Malaysia to study for a graduate degree in International Relations.
Featured Image Source: NewArab.com