They tell me to evacuate my home, my land.
As if my home has legs;
As if the olive tree, that for decades rooted deep,
Will up and follow;
As if the echoes of my mother’s lullabies
Will pack their bags and draft with us to the exile.
A poem for those mocked and gaslighted for decrying the genocide of the Palestinian people.
If the war stops now, who will bring back our loved ones who were killed in cold blood?
no longer wandering
in the wilderness
we have become
the pharaoh
Like pieces of your heart will forever be in more places than one. Always in search of another Palestinian to ask, “where are you from?”
Let’s not try to apply logic to the Gaza wound and call ourselves a civilized world. I condemn all language now. That’s what I condemn. The only word that matters now: is “Gaza!”
Doaa Alremeili is constantly searching for any news she can of her family in Gaza. Any relief she finds regarding their safety is fleeting.
While Palestinian and Arab poets once likened the Fall of Granada to the loss of Palestine, a newer generation is recasting “al-Andalus” as the Palestine yet to come.
As part of our monthly poetry series BEIT, Hasheemah Afaneh asks, “For how long will the trees continue to be watered?”
As part of our monthly poetry series BEIT, Mosab Abu Toha reflects on the legacy of the Palestinian harvest.