By This poem does not have a title, just like the atrocity my people go through every day, nameless; too hurtful to be properly named. Palestine is my home, the land of oranges and olives, the land that keeps the fire burning aflame in my heart and the land that lights up the black in my eyes…
I’m not sure if this is a poem
But this is everything I am
So I guess it is
I want to live freely
And I’m so numb
To everything
Except for the sound of home
That I’ve never visited
We’re special
Because I can call a place
I’ve never truly been to home
Have you been hearing about deaths in your hometown every day for the past 70 years?
Do people have to ask you about where you’re from because they can’t see it on a map? I am the map
My people and I will create a new map
Even if it takes my blood
My sweat
And my tears
And my veins
إننا راجعون And everything it takes I want to truly say
WE ARE RETURNING
I don’t want to be just a talker
It’s as useless as a lover who doesn’t love
I’m tired of words
And I’m a poet
I need something to change
But Allah I’m so powerless
I’m not better than these men and women who fought
But I will try to do something
With teaching people
What it’s like to be Palestinian
To be Palestinian is to conceal your eternal sadness
My sadness will never ever die
I will not get into politics
I am just broken
It’s like having your lover taken away from you, but worse
You can find another lover
But I can never find another home
This is etched into my skin like the cross stitch we try to weave a message into This dances in my heart
Your reality is my dream
I want to live at home
I want to pick olives from the trees
I want to climb these mountains
I want to swim these seas
I want to be
This is how it is to be Palestinian