Freedom Fighters

For living in their country

For loving their homeland

They were imprisoned

And

In their homes

Was where the story began.

They were

Peacefully living

Wouldn’t harm a fly

Or kill a flower

Or take off a plant.

At  home

Playing with their infants

In the backyard

They were.

A father throwing his son a ball

How hazardous that is

To men with guns

And bombs.

Gun shots

Very loud sounds

And in a second

The soldiers got inside the house.

Women were beaten

Children were scattered on the ground

The feathers kept in the vase

Were everywhere around.

A father and a mother

On that day

Said goodbye to a son

To a man

A Palestinian

They knew they were never going to see again.

On the light of a candle

And on the sound of drones

That no longer at home son

Was raised

Was born.

Freedom Fighters

That’s all what they were

Better yet

Are meant to be.

From inside the cells

From inside the solitary confinements

You can hear their voices

Their whispers

To the night

And daylight

Which to them are both alike.

They are beaten

With wooden sticks

It’s nothing

However

Compared to the iron ones.

We ,on the other side of the bars,

Are captured

Are imprisoned

Not allowed to write

 To say what’s right!

To fight.

They fold our eyes

They shut our mouths

And on news the occupation’s spokesman praises

The urge to let people talk

To support freedom of speech

And To say things aloud.

Bad healthcare

No family visits.

No longer do our men have fathers

Mothers

Or children

Or wives

Everything is by force taken from them

Life is dragged out of their bodies

Memories are stolen.

And the list goes on and on

Till they die

Till their bodies are freed

And to ash they return

Then they are buried

Under the grave they were captured in

And their souls fly to

Where they truly lived

In their land

In their childhood home

As martyrs to their mothers and fathers

They return

And that’s where the story ends

And a new chapter of another fighter

Begins

The friend next cell


A small hole
In the standing between us
Wall
Where air goes through
So air would blend
With the other room’s.

Teeny tiny, dark rooms
Spooky day and night
No human voice
No news
No sunlight
No moon

An iron door
An iron fist 
With the butt of the gun
Always the door is hit 

It rings real loud
It deafens

Another hole 
Between the bars 
Of a small window
Of my cell’s door
I sneak through it

I see
The man outside
Eating doughnuts 
Drinking soda
Then burps

I crawl back near the wall
(hardly can move 
Handcuffed and chained) 
I whisper to the friend next cell
“I hate the man outside,
I will not let him inside 
I know how to treat guests
Not sure he knows how to be one.”

He hits the door again
A sign for us to go to bed
I close my eyes 
And sleep

The next day I don’t wake up 
The next cell man is dead
Rotten 
He’s been dead 
For a long while

The grave soaked 
With the smell of life
Freedom
Now that it filled mine
As well
I died
I lived
I was freed.

In the memory of my Grandmother

She was the mother of my mother and my mother.

After my grandmother had died, it was very difficult for me to go to her house or walk by it. Our childhood full of bitter-sweet memories house had a smell that I could swear my grandmother had. It is near my university and sometimes I am forced to walk by it. It was never easy to do so. Once I am near the house, I get my hands ready to touch the door, the handle, the walls, everything that brings that shiver to the body. The shiver which straightens the hair, which trembles the body, which clears the way for the tears to flow. Today, I went there -not to celebrate Eid with granny though. The house was different. It was almost dead. I felt the pain it felt. Tears showering from the ceiling, the walls were so black; everything in there resembles one thing: sorrow. The smell was different; as if when she died, that unique smell died with her. When she died, she took the smiles, the memories, the everything that kept the house standing still. I remember when my cousins and I used to play around the house, I remember how she would shout at us for ruining the carpet and dirty it. I remember her shouting at us for messing around with her stuff, I remember how she would call my name: Nour! In a scary way saying in hidden words” what have you done?!” However, I remember the times we would go from school to her place and the first thing we could think of the food she had cooked for us. Fragrant food would be smelled miles away. I still remember her bed time stories,  I remember her stories about Jaffa, I remember her stories about my mother when she was around my age, I remember the sweets she would hide for me, I remember the (edeya) she used to give me every Eid, I remember her smile, I remember her tears when she used to be in pain, I remember her cries, I remember her, I remember her clear of crystal, I remember her cold body lying before my eyes, I remember touching her hands, asking her to forgive me for every time I pretended I didn’t hear her calling, simply because I was feeling lazy, I remember every single detail about her face, her eyes, her hands, her everywhere wrinkles, I remember saying goodbye to her, I remember kissing her the farewell kiss. But there was no use for anything for I have not heard her saying goodbye to me in-return. It was hard not having her around, it is hard not being able to say happy Eid for her. But she taught me a lot of things starting: what a perfect granny can be like.

Memory, Captured

Some things need to be captured

So later on are viewed.

We have to remember some parts

That our minds intend to hide.

Till this day I hope I can go back in time

And take photos

For all the precious moments

That hurriedly passed by;

In a blink of an eye.

There are some times,

I wish I could relive or resee

I close my eyes for a passing memory.

Like a scene of a movie

I have watched long time ago,

I barely remember the names

Hardly recognize the faces.

Everything has changed;

Everyone as well.

That moment was supposed to be

Forever lasting.

I am not afraid of tomorrow,

I am not ashamed of the past,

I just wish for ( a picture

captured in a frame)

That has all the things I have lived

And wish to live again

All in one photo

From the past

To remind me

That tomorrow is worthy

One more shot

O n e last chance.

Sinai Attack

Hear my words

I say them out loud

We Palestinians

Never bombed your land

If media or israel

Say the other things round

Believe a Palestinian knows what

She is talking about

Wake up

listen real carefully

It wasn’t us

How can we?

We are brothers

We all believe so

If we had such strength

Why not go and kill those who did

Kill our dads and sons?

It’s a game

They tried to score

Let’s show them

Our defense is better

1-0

We won

Not the other way round!

Good Omen

The room is not closing up,

I am.

The world is not getting smaller

I just can’t breathe

I am feeling deeply hurt

Fell in a well

Too deep

I am losing control

Daylight is getting darker

Or is it me who is closing her eyes?

Let me know why

Everything is upside down?

Or am I standing on the ceiling

From the inside?

But the wall looks right where it should be

The things drawn on the wall

Look like a perfectly drawn painting

Something is right

Too right

Good

But too good

Bad omen

The birds are still awake

I am dying

I am sure that’s it

Dawn is not going to happen

Nor will the moon go to sleep

Tonight doesn’t seem to have an end

But my life does

 Tonight I write on the very last page

Of my book,

My life

The End ..

A Gunshot

By : Nour O. El Borno

“Duck,

I can hear a gunshot.”

I stood, “Where?”

I asked.

“Move, you child”

The voice replied.

I am not a child

I will not duck

I used to sleep on this sound

I used to hear this day and night

A lullaby my mom would sing

So I can have a good night sleep

I was raised to this kind of horror

I was raised to embrace such dark nights

This may be new to you

But I have heard this

trillions of times

My father is dead

My mother died as well

My brothers were imprisoned

My sisters were kidnapped

“A gunshot”

That’s what you call it

A reason for you to duck

Yet,

A reason for me to skip

My basketball training

Simple rules we live by

Death is written since the beginning of time

I will not die before the time I am set to

Let your gunshots be randomly shot

I will not die

Unless it’s my time

I am not afraid of you

Or your gun

I am not a child

I claim not to be a man

I am just a Palestinian

In my blood

the word

‘Fearless’ runs