A Fight to be Free

My cousin Rama, Ein Al-Fijeh, North of Damascus, Syria Circa 2009

My cousin Rama, Ein Al-Fijeh, North of Damascus, Syria Circa 2009

I was always taught
To say
Every good-bye, as though it was my last.
That’s what I’ve been told.
If I glance, it will give me a clue, or a hint.
A long stare is empty
It can never explain.
You will explain.
Can you?
But my last good-bye, that one was my last.
I knew it in my blood.
Palestinian blood.

Flitting, flying, floating.
Illuminating, illustrating, impressing,
Revolutionize, rationalize, validate.
Despair, obliterate, vilify.
The frozen, the silent, and the still.
Our feelings are all the same again.
But Damascus will never be the same again.
I won’t see Sednaya again.
Will I see them again?
My mother would never say that.
But she would say that
We are Palestinian.
And Palestinians will fight to be free.

Thoughts to feign.
Disabled to abstain.
Wonderment if I am the same?
If you are humane?
Or if your inaction, is the creation of my domain.
This life.
There is no way to know in the inevitable struggle,
If it was worth it in the end,
Until the end.

People say it will never change.
But can that be true?
Because in the end, it means nothing more than what is meant,
to me.
Normalize and destruct, that’s you.
But what is me — is beyond me.
No end to this unsettling story.
We are more than our story.
67 years later
And everyone can still see.
Stay still and be
With rationality.
We are Palestinian.
And Palestinians will fight to be free.

Whether or not
It is seen
The spirit in me
Transforms to the light breeze
of my grandmother’s fig tree.
I told you.
Like I said.

We are Palestinian.
We are Palestinian.
We are Palestinian!
And Palestinians will fight to be free.

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