CROSSING BORDERS

"If I meet an Israeli, I will tell him I am not a terrorist. I am Palestinian."
Amal, 9 years.

On a tiny strip of land,

miles you can count

on the fingers of your hand,

bombs are falling

to the rhythm of their own time.

They leave behind

nothing - only rubble;

if they could,

they would even take the sand.

In your mind,

run the fingers of your hand

through that sand,

sift through that sand.

Names lie in those grains,

of blood,

of brains -

the last remains

of the martyred ones,

children,

whose hopes die young,

whose flesh remember pain,

who ask this question

time, and again,

“What did we do

to end this way?”

then plan their sweet revenge

on you.

I want to convince Amal of peace.

In dreams, I prevent your bloodshed;

but she will have to learn to live

with the shrapnel inside her head.

One day the bombs

will stop falling,

and the rivers

will overflow with fish,

and the guns that

little boys play with

will cease to exist,

will be exchanged

for gifts

of fishing rods, and binoculars,

to see beyond,

to dream beyond

the Gaza Strip.

Amal and her surviving brother, Mahmoud, amid the rubble of their home.

- Shaista Tayabali, 2010

shadow of the scarf, luke powell photography