The Persistence of Palestine

The Sea used to be open 

like the sky, 

no borders, no end in sight, 

but now the three-mile fishing limit 

leads to death 

for those who cross it.

Imagine being shot 

for fishing off the shores 

of the outdoor prison 

that has become your homeland.

The arbitrary line 

they drew in the Sea, 

the power of the State 

and only the State 

to draw lines, 

forbid their subjects to cross, 

gunboats,

gunships

guard the Sea and the Sky 

overhead, 

high enough for the pilots 

not to see 

the faces of the fishermen 

before they sink into the Sea, 

their nets left 

to tugging waves, 

no longer held taught 

by the hands of those holding 

onto their livelihood, 

only the bullet in their back 

forcing them 

once and for all 

to let go 

of the persistence of Palestine

in their hearts.  

And yet their sons appear 

like the sun 

on the early morning horizon 

to take up the simple act 

of living, 

of fishing, 

of defying 

the invisible lines of confinement, 

the fences, 

the Walls, 

the checkpoints, 

the night raids,

the daily humiliation, 

day and night, 

wen ma kan—everywhere

to throw off the reigns 

that only seek 

to reign in

their right of return,

to live at home

in their homeland. 

My voice carries stories, 

of so many silenced. 

Will I too be silenced 

like Rachel Corrie

run over 

by the bulldozer in Rafah 

while trying to stop 

the demolition of Palestinian homes 

with her body? 

Will Israel stop my pen 

from writing, 

recording what I have seen 

with my own eyes? 

Will I become 

another victim 

of their self-righteousness 

that is only fear in disguise? 

What else points a rifle 

at a child holding up stones, 

the stones of his homeland, 

other than deep ancestral fear? 

Can’t they tend 

to the broken souls of their ancestors, 

resort to kindness 

lest they perpetuate 

the very hate 

that led to their own persecution? 

Are they convinced 

no one will ever love them? 

Aren’t we past that vindication? 

Can’t we be brave, 

see ourselves 

not only in our friends, 

but our enemies? 

Aren’t we who we are by chance, 

like an algorithm, 

a luck of the draw? 

Couldn’t we have been 

someone else, 

and then what would we have done? 

This staking ground 

is only leading us all 

to the grave. 

Our whole lives 

ahead of us, 

can’t we choose life 

for ourselves and each other? 

Is it so hard to be human? 

Is the hurt a blanket card of humiliation 

instead of humility? 

Can’t I heed my own words, 

honor you, you me? 

Why is simple so hard, 

subjugation so easy? 

Does it feel that good to stand tall 

on the backs of those 

you deem below you, 

less worthy, 

unworthy? 

Where are the eyes of history 

that push back 

on the audacity

to press others into the ground 

like insects in their path, 

present 

but dispensable, 

disposable. 

Is it okay 

to bury them in the sand, 

bury them alive? 

Ah, 

but the sand is still moving.