Nakba
Nakba
By Remi Kanazi
she was scared
seven months pregnant
guns pointed at temples
tears dropping
stomach cusped
back bent
dirt pathways
leading to
dispossession
rocking boats
waves crashing
people rushing
falling over each other
packing into small spaces
like memories
her home
mandated
occupied
cleansed
conquered
terrorizers
sat on hills
sniping children
neighbors fled
on April 10
word came
of massacre
didn’t fight
didn’t leave
shells and bombs
bursting in air
like anthems
prayed for the dead
with priests and imams
prayed for the living
looking over shoulders
for the Irgun and Haganah
a warrior
raised life
planted trees
painted fruit
cared for the road
as if it was her garden
orphaned twice
after birth
from Palestine
whispered Yaffa
till final breath
never knew essence
until she found
emptiness
48 ways to flee
and she found Beirut
bullet holes in buildings
reminder of home
but not home
years later
daughters sat
on hills in the South
dreaming of breaking
water never touched
thinking of their mother
that warrior
how battles still
raged here and abroad
orchards flourished
propagandists called
them barren
land expropriated
for Europeans
thirsting for
territory
colonist
non-native
not from here
plant flags, call it home
rename cities and villages
uprooting graveyards
wiping/clearing/cleansing
memory that this
is not theirs
passed away
August 22, 2009
frail hands shook
lip trembled
didn’t want to die
but suffered decades
she spoke in Arabic
broken English
wounded words
and murmurs
her eyes closed
but every so often
they blinked brilliance
memories that could not
be erased, uprooted
or cleansed
she had not forgotten
we have not forgotten
we will not forget
veins like roots
of olive trees
we will return
that is not a threat
not a wish
a hope
or a dream
but a promise
From the collection Before the Next Bomb Drops: Rising Up From Brooklyn to Palestine.