Inherited Senses

What a beautiful rainbow!
It feels so good to be sure: 
My dad saw this before;
Something I know he laid his eyes on,
Finally, something in common. 

How harmonic the birds sound!
They whistle like when he used to be around:
I now feel like he once did 
When he heard the birds sing.
A memory I make up
For I have never had one.
Now I can say, 

“We heard the same song.” 
Only few years apart, 
but why would I care about the time? 
My mothers’ hands felt so soft tonight; 
Something I know he once gently touched. 
I am sorry to say
They have wrinkles now. 
It’s been so long, 
he’s been away:
somethings changed, others did not. 
And when it rains,
And the soil’s scent spreads, 
I smell what he once smelled. 
Another thing we share, 
One more memory to add. 
And then I call my name:
Once or twice; 
Like I am sure he once did 
When I was a child. 
Although it is my voice, 
letters stay the same. 
I once was ‘memoriless’ 
But I refuse to stay like this
No one can deny or object. 
Rest in your grave
Until one day we join 
Thought it may take long
Eventually we will meet:
And see colors together, 
And hear songs of swallows, 
And hold my mother’s hands- you take 
Her right one, I take Her left- and 
Stand in opposite direction: you smell the flower
And tickle my nose when I ask you to let me smell it; 
And you will call my name, 
And I .. I will, for the first time, 
Call you dad 
And we will have forever
To meet for the first time and make real memories. 

00:01.. 00:02..00:03

“20 years.” This will be my answer when people ask me about my age after 13 days; why, however, do I feel that I am much older than that? Why does the world suddenly seem different? Do we become officially grownups when we turn 20? What is so special about this number? 20?

Dare I say 20 years of success? Or tears? Or fear? Failure? What am I but twenty long years? First five of them I don’t remember. Second five of them were at primary school: young and reckless. Second five: a teenager with no destination. Third five: worried about tawjihi. Last five: I am becoming; the journey of finding myself and who I am. But how many more fives do I have? How many more fives will I waste? Do I even have one more five?

Being 20 means I can no longer feek. The second the clock strikes 12 am the night before my birthday, I have to have found myself and decided how I want to spend what is left of my life. I have to have remembered my values, beliefs and thoughts which I will be living on for the time left for me to live. Because if I cannot keep them carved in my memory: that whenever something happens, they take control, I am not a grownup, I am ‘beliefless’ or ‘valueless.’ I have to take control now. I have to let go all those years of nothingness and start looking for the real thing that will complete me, no matter what that thing is.  

My journey starts now. My life starts now. But if that so, what were those twenty years? A preface. When I am 20, I am, the timer starts. 00:01.. 00:02..00:03. 


In the endless roars, fade the cries,
Barely can I see fear in her eyes:
Like a flower floating on water,
Rootless, yet she stands.
Her son died few miles from the hospital:
Borders closed, no medication.
“He’s dying!” Begged she,
No one listened.
“He’s my only one”
Eyes shut.
“His father’s dead”
Ears closed:
“Leave, woman!”
His machine’s beep stopped
Little Adam died
While the officers were still questioning:
“Is this boy a terrorist or just a sick child?”

War, For What Reason?

My son went to war and never came back

Because some kings thought:

Why not to earn more cash?

I thought my son died as a hero who fought for his land

But so thought the mother who my son killed her lad

He was so young at age and young at heart

He thought, “tomorrow will have a brighter sunshine.”

He was ready to die for what he believed in

“For freedom,” he once said.

We were fooled by the speeches of the rich

Some died in the battle and of waiting died the rest.

In castles of gold and diamond, the rulers celebrated the winning

In the hall where they set the army:

their spirits became forgotten losses.

We were left to mourn in our small old houses

And all of their promises faded.

They dare to appear on televisions

In their Armani suits and expensive watches

And address me and my family

And address the rest of the country:

“We lost few souls,”

He looked down, he wiped his eyes

Then mentioned a number, then continued:

“But we won the war.”

I wondered while sobbing for I had tears no more:

Those who died were just numbers

a n d t h o s e who DID NOT FIGHT, history shall remember!

And my son Adam went to war and never came back

Because some kings were thirsty for more land.

My Adam was tall and handsome

My Adam is not a number mentioned in history records

My Adam fought and he was the one who won along with his fellows.