The earth has a heartbeat that bleeds tears In time with a little child’s fear. The holies dare not rest complacent in the belief That humankind will love their neighbors as themselves. The wars and rumours have split open the doors And something much more malicious has entered in. Something stirred the dust and the
NEVER AGAIN! AND YET AGAIN? (for the Holocaust being commited in Palestine by Israel!) Remember you said never again! But here it is again. Remember you said “We will never forget” but here it is again. You said “Genocide is a crime” but here is the crime again. So your words were false then? or
My dear sister: I am so sorry, my sister. No matter how much I speak, I cannot describe the suffering we have endured. I speak to you and weep for everything I have lived through. I remember what I saw, what I experienced, and what I am still experiencing during this war and genocide. We
(Farasha means “butterfly” in Arabic) Tears pour as we Toss and turn Sleep is futile as They pillage and burn Complacency is useless We must rise for the oppressed Firstly in night prayers Begging for wrongs to be addressed Then we use any means At our disposal Boycott, divest, sanction Is our proposal Yearning to
Cease your fire For I am only a child who wishes to admire, Admire the waves as they crash on the shore, Admire the laughter, the music, the joy we had before I wish to chase kites, not run from the sound To see homes standing, not torn to the ground And to sit by
A Diary of A Holocaust: OH, The Voices We Won’t Hear
My grandmother, Tayta Fadela Al Haj, was born in 1926, while my grandfather, Seedo Mohamad Abdul Mooti Mansour, arrived in this world in 1925. She was a young 22-year-old, and he was 23 when they were displaced from Saffuriyya, located a short distance from AI Nasirah (Nazareth). The year 1948 destroyed their village, besieged and
In bitter times stones cut your feet And the winds of change stood still. When all the voices and all the wars were scratched into your heart, And marked into your soul. I watched and waited for you. In the cruel and relentless call to arms The mothers and the children hid Crouched and beaten
I sit at my machine, the early morning news still ringing in my ears. An earnest voice acknowledges the land our fathers took. Now some attempts are made at reparations and apologies. That’s good, I think, long overdue. Then images of war, of starving children, a wasteland, fills the screen. I hear the cries of
These simple, rustic pieces of pottery have made the remarkable journey from Gaza to the UK and now to Sarnia, Canada! I am a Palestinian from Gaza and my wife is English, and we lived in Gaza from 1984 to 2000, after which we immigrated to Canada. My mother and father-in-law came regularly to visit
