By Izzah Husna
I’m a Ghost but I can’t wander anywhere.
My late mama said I’m a human, a person,
But those with loaded arms don’t see me as one.
They don’t hear my cry, my plea for help
They don’t hear me. They don’t see me.
My late baba told me they’re blinded
By the tear gas they threw themselves.
They’re deafened by their own missiles,
They are afraid, much more than we are.
They told me again and again that
I only exists at the border, where
They see me then and they talk to me then
And they’ll put me in handcuffs sometimes
You know, when they feel like it, when
The weather makes their coffee taste bitter.
Then they’ll ask me things,
They would ask me:
“Why are you here?”
“Where’s your home?”
But I don’t know what they mean by home
And I don’t know if my answer weighs anything.
You know, they see us all the same
Regardless if I am their son’s age,
Regardless if I am only seven.
Author’s commentary:
Let’s place our fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters and children of Palestine constantly in our remembrance and our prayers. With them all, let our hearts beat to the chant “Free Free Palestine!”
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