Palestine Paralyzed, A Poem.

Guest contribution by Ruba Ahmad

From the moment I open my eyes, I feel them burn.

Not because I’m in pain

But because you are.

As I sleep you cry. As I sleep you bleed. As I sleep you die.

If I could put all my moments of peace in a jar and send them your way,

You’d never hear a bomb again.

You’d save them right between the black olive jar,

And the green olive jar.

In the morning you’d take them all out,

Set the table for breakfast,

Hand yourself some peace of mind.

If I could, I’d hold you tight,

So tight that all you feel is my arms around you.

No pain

No hurt

Just my arms around you.

My hands are small but they’ll hold you all.

If I could hold you so tight

That the sound of my beating heart drowned out every boom in the distance,

I’d never let go.

My words are inadequate,

They’ll never be enough.

But if every letter I wrote could be a smile on your face,

I’d write forever.

I’d write a thousand words,

I’d write a billion letters.

But as I write you cry. As I write you bleed. As I write you die.

So I pray.

I close my eyes and raise my palms and I pray that today is different.

Today, you live.

I pray that clouds filled with little drops of hope never run dry.

They’ll fall until every inch of oppression has been washed away.

I pray that a lightning bolt of faith lights your sky.

And a roar of thunder screams

“This land is mine.”

Because it is,

Its yours and its mine.

No matter how many settlements they build

Trees they destroy or lives they end,

This land is ours.

It’s ours.

You’re much better than me,

I’ve never felt our land beneath my feet.

I’ve never breathed its air,

Or counted the stars in a Falasteeni sky.

What I know of our land is the ever present ache in my heart that has haunted every moment of my life.

What I know is the rhythm my heart beats seem to follow,

Beat after beat,

Fa la steen.

Fa la steen.

Oceans and walls and miles and checkpoints and passports mean nothing.

I love you, and I love our land,

Simply because I do.

Simply because I feel it pulsing through my veins.

I know nothing of your suffering.

You can tell me, or I can read it, even or watch it on a screen,

But I’ll never really know.

So I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that hearts have grown numb and ears have fallen deaf.

I’m sorry that I sleep while you cry

I write while you die.

I’m sorry that I’ve taken so long to come to you.

Just know that I’m on my way,

While you’re there and I’m away,

Please know that

I always pray.

Ruba Ahmad is a Palestinian-American college student and activist studying political science. You can follow her on Twitter @Ruubzx