Twinkle Twinkle Little Heart against Thunder and the Dark

Like a little kid holding on
To everything beautiful;

Like a little bird landing
Easily on the thorniest ground;

Like a snake wishing upon a star
For wings and a chance;

Like a pink hoping to be in rainbow,
Waiting every night for a miracle;

Like a serene melody trying
To become a real voice;

Like the sound of rain drops
Knocking on the clouds;

Like the breeze of sorrow
Pationately passing by the open doors;

Like the light when it’s too dark,
Embracing every spot;

Like the snow when it seeks
Another season, a warmer one;

Like myself; seeking a future
In a shadowy dream:
Full of hope
Full of anticipation

Full of one thing above all,
One thing which will make it whole,
Which, in a maze of fragmentations,

Will create perfect symmetry:

A world full of poetry.

 

The Glorious Wins

I was called on a cold night,

I was dragged before my child,

I was sentenced before my wife,

I went blind.

I was holding my son’s toy

I was ceasing my tears inside

I was trying to laugh against

The inevitable end ahead.

It all seemed so scary,

The trials, lawyers, the glory:

None were given,

None ever showed up.

Glory is another story I wish not to speak of.

It was a cold night when I was called;

I was beaten with boots so dirty,

I was abused by the so called man of law.

I am a Palestinian, that was my fatal flaw.

That was my glorious blow;

A story I wish not to speak of.

“Out,” shouted the man with the gun.

“But my baby,” I ran out of words.

“To hell,” he said. To hell I went.

In hell I stayed. Literal hell on earth.

A breeze of torture slapped me in the face,

A breeze of bullets stung my chest,

A breeze of memories wiped my tears,

I was there on my knees,

Like a man so glorious against the world.

A story I wish not to unfold.

“Speak,” spitted the rifle or the man holding it,

There was no difference.

Both could torture, booth could kill, both could swear.

I felt the lightning, I felt the volts, I felt the electricity we were deprived of.

It ran through my veins like blood.

“250,” or 300 or more,

I could not see,

I was not sure.

Screams of others in the cells next door;

I knew I was not alone.

The skull was open,

A fountain of memories was gone.

My teeth were broken,

No tooth fairy around.

I had to survive for my child.

For my wife.

The man or the rifle,

I couldn’t tell which,

Broke my bones, broke my head.

For my child, for my wife,

They were all dead.

The man or the rifle one of them killed

Everything that was left.

And I was shot; I joined my friends;

Fellows from the next cells.

 I stood still lying on the floor:

One man against the world.

One man won.

To My Father From the Year 2014

“Our love is like the wind. I can’t see it but I can feel it.”

أسامة أنور البورنو

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It has been around 19 years. Tomorrow they become 19 years since you died (or I’d prefer estash’had). It’s funny. It’s like the age of someone. As if someone turned 19. Here’s the thing: everything about you is fragmented. All I know is fragments of fragments of fragments. Yeah that’s about it. I am 20 years old. See why I said it’s like someone’s age? Around my age. I am one year older than your martyrdom.

I was thinking today about how I can hold on to to someone I don’t remember. Heck, I have never heard, seen, met, hugged and all the cool stuff fathers and daughters do. I didn’t know the answer until few minutes ago then I decided to write this blog post. But I’ll get to that later.

I used to say, “I have never dreamed of him.” However, that changed very recently. I have had at least three  to four dreams about him. You think it is little; I think it is A LOT. My dreaming season has been too dry for too long. Having dreams about him almost never happened. I never understood why. But I always believed. I am not sure what it was that I believed in but I used to tell myself, “You’ll dream about him when you are ready.” Ready for what I was not sure. Now I understand.

It is not that I was giving up on him or his memories (that never really happened) but something inside of me started fading. I got busy. I had more things to think about. More things to call for, dream of, want *Shame on me*. It was time for me to have dreams about him (the man I have never met, the man I have never known). I was sired to him, am still sired. Blood? It’s more than that. My last dream about him was great. It was really great. But the funny thing is that in the dream he was dead. I know right? Even when I dream about him he’s dead_going back to another dream, I went back in time and saw him but he was dead. The two more dream, I can barely remember or recognize.

Why am I writing this? Because here’s the thing: if I don’t hold on to my own father’s memory, no one will. And my father, as so many people who knew him told me, was a great man (it feels awful to use was but that’s life, right?) Great men must not be forgotten. Yes I don’t have stories about him to tell my children or grand-children, or my friends or mates, but I have something better than stories and memories, “He’s a shaheed (martyr),” I say whenever anyone asks me. To be honest, it’s the only thing that keeps me standing.

I can’t forget the person who helped bringing me to life. I can’t forget the man who raised me, for a year but the idea is that he raised me. I can’t forget my dad. I won’t forget my dad.

How can I hold on to someone I have never known?

I can’t. So I hold on to everything else that reminds me of him: my religion, my family, me.

May his soul rest in peace. May I can finally meet him. May I get my own stories and memories with him. Amen. Amen.

4\3\1995