"If I meet an Israeli, I will tell him I am not a terrorist. I am Palestinian."
Amal, 9 years.
On a tiny strip of land
miles you can count
on the fingers of your hand
Bombs are falling
to the rhythm of their own time.
They leave behind
nothing - only rubble,
if they could
they would even take the sand.
In your mind
run the fingers of your hand
through that sand
sift through that sand
Names lie in those grains
of blood,
of brains -
the last remains
of the martyred ones,
children,
whose hopes die young
whose flesh remember pain
who ask this question
time, and again,
"What did we do
to end this way?"
then plan their sweet revenge
on you.
I want to convince Amal of peace
In dreams I prevent your bloodshed
but she will have to learn to live
with the shrapnel inside her head.
One day the bombs
will stop falling
and the rivers
will overflow with fish
and the guns that
little boys play with
will cease to exist
will be exchanged
for gifts
of fishing rods, and binoculars,
to see beyond,
to dream beyond
the Gaza Strip.
 |
Amal and her surviving brother Mahmoud amid the rubble of their home. |
- Shaista Tayabali, 2010
shadow of the scarf, luke powell photography