1. Falastin
I'm not a Palestinian.
Never been there either.
But the Palestine I grew up seeing on the square shaped screens and news papers,
Was not necessarily a land that a poet can romanticize.
Yet, when I close my eyes and think of Palestine,
Why do I see an old women in an olive garden standing with her daughter and granddaughter,
Reminiscing about her childhood memories?
Why do I see a small girl with skin like pure milk, long pitch black braided hair in a red embroidered dress running around the yard of Al-quds, laughing and screaming with joy while her parents walking slowly behind holding each other's hand, both smiling at her with adoration?
Why do I see a middle aged man selling tea as the teenage boys in his stall chatting and laughing.
And a group of girls walking past them on their way to school as one of them shyly look away once her eyes meets with one of the boys?
Palestine isn't necessarily a land the poet can romanticize.
Not yet.
What the poet sees is the future of a free Palestine.
What the poet sees is what he fights for.
To die for preserving the laughter of that milk skinned child, is worth it.
To die to save that olive garden, is worth it.
To die for a future where the teenage boy can walk up to his crush with a flower in his hand instead of walking up to a marching tank with a stone and slingshot, is worth it.
.
Palestine isn't necessarily a land the poet can romanticize.
When the poet closes his eyes, he hears the stomps of millions of Palestinians marching together towards Al-Quds.
He hears the people chanting in rithm Al-Huriiye non-stop!!!
The rithm never goes out of sync
The voices never get tired.
He also hears the deafening silence of the oblivious world.
This silence syncs perfectly with the stomps of the boots of the intruders and hooves of their horse.
But it slows over time.
It gets tired and prepared to get overwhelmed by the army of heaven chanting Al-Hurrye!!
The poet smiles.
