Dear Gaza,
I hear your strawberries are sweeter than honey this time of year. I’m sorry the occupation’s bombs decimated your harvest and massacred the people who would lovingly pluck each piece of your red gold, may their souls finally rest. I’m sorry I paid to destroy your vibrant neighborhoods, your scenic streets, the alleyways where your love and laughter echoed. Ripe, dazzling strawberries splattered on your once paved roads. Fragrant, fresh strawberry juice helplessly running down the phosphorous infected dirt, through blood-stained soil, and under decaying bodies that belonged to the most resilient people. Gaza, I pray this is not the last time you see your luscious scarlet fruit. I pray the strawberries melt on your tongue, that their seeds roll over every last one of your taste buds, their juice dripping down your chin and hands. Gaza, may you never see strawberry juice and question if it is blood. The soul of my soul, I pray we meet soon. I pray your strawberries touch my lips. I would do anything to shake your hand and let you embrace me. I am so proud to be yours; I love you so fiercely. |
I can’t believe I’d ever let My Mother Tongue escape me,
let her mesmerizing sound swirl around my cheeks, waiting for me to swallow, but I never did. Instead, I spat her out each time I opened my mouth, betraying her. Now she glides down my throat like بالمرامية شاي with honey, like العنب ورق intricately wrapped between my grandmother’s gentle fingers, like الزيتون زيت from the West Bank. My mother tongue is warm, tender, and nurturing. She tucks me in at night, whispers sweet lullabies, and greets me in the morning with the delicate wave of a dozen الخشخاش زهور. My mother tongue is the only thing anchoring me to the Earth. My secret weapon, my saving grace, a reminder of the land I have yet to walk on. |