By -Sarah B-
Mornings become mournings,
witnessing new worst worsts.
Group chats flood with news
forwards and check-ins,
still alive,
for now.
I watch my neighbour pace,
el wad3 sa3b.
Fridge filled with Tupperware from
a coping mother cooking.
Every sentence ends with a prayer,
Hamdillah.
Another Halloween, I am haunted
by bones and blood, because in
Falastine,
there’s no pretend.
We watch our skies light up,
with weapons custom designed for
us.
People become landmines in
Lebanon.
Detonate. Decimate.
Desecrate. Des/create. create from
desecreation:
ovens out of oil cans,
wind powered electricity from
plastic fans,
sewing machines run by bicycle
wheels,
life from destruction,
hope from telling,
truth.
Morally bankrupt, rich off
colonized lands,
a fetish with fascism, redrawing red
lines.
Pow, pow, power, assumed as
strength.
But no strength is actually required
to exhibit power.
Threatened by our existence from
an image they created.
They can’t stand to see us stand
A war within wars, based off an
orchestrated plan,
to infiltrate, erase and ban.
Razing all life forms from family
trees to olive trees.
A people lose their jobs, limbs, and
lives for holding
a flag, a thought, a belief
that Palestine will be free.
There’s something about grief that
gives,
like Gibran’s scale of joy and
sorrow.
“The deeper that sorrow carves
into your being, the more joy you
can contain.”
The greater struggle you endure,
the more strength you can obtain.
Actual strength,
to resist a de-moral diaper wearing
army hidden behind metal thrones
and iron domes.
We resist with recycled rockets
made in hand carved tunnels,
with fists and fury fuelled by
freedom.
We resist to no longer witness the
last laugh, last hug,
las breath.
We resist to liberate our lands and our lives.
We resist,
to exist.