Gaza is the ghost of the world, the persistent presence that, despite all efforts to erase it, to make it disappear, remains and resists. It is Gaza that has shown us the impossible: the horrors of settler colonialism at its most extreme and brutal, the ways in which resistance is possible in the smallest of gestures, and finally, the triumphant acts of return and reunification following the now-broken ceasefire agreement. The ghost of the world has shown us the world for what it is and what...
are you a total fucking idiot
do you know anything about gunpowder
have you heard a hand grenade detonate
have you seen a combat medic amputate eighty legs in one go
do you understand what 75% saltpeter
15% charcoal and 10% sulfur can achieve
Subtlety: something I go back and forth worrying about, an oscillation between “not that deep” or “not worth it” to address, but with the knowledge that it is still cutting, cutting, cutting.
Thunder drummed in jubilation as our tires tangoed with the city’s cobblestones, and we rode like Khalid and Abu Obiedah, banging on the city’s gates, claiming Damascus as our own. We were her boys, and she gently embraced us, pulling the cover of rain over to protect us. Our clothes, drenched and heavy with rain, clung tightly. We were soaked to the last inch of our bodies. We wore soft, innocent smiles. Not a word was uttered.
In the past few decades, as liberal cultural institutions have grown more dastardly effective at co-opting and defanging the political potential of writers and artists from historically marginalized backgrounds, the amorphous imperative to “witness” continuously re-emerges in the face of unceasing tragedy wrought about by the United States, its ruling class, and its ghastly allies across the globe. We are implored to “witness” atrocity after atrocity, but never as more than...
Should I tell you a secret?
I’m afraid of the anguish I hold within me. Do people fear their own anguish?
Because today there is still a war and
maybe after the war there will be a day,
if after the war I have a drum or even a mouth
to fix to say that we will dance
and laugh so hard a day
after the day after the war
Jenin Refugee camp is referred to by Palestinians as the “castle of the revolutionaries” or the “capital of resistance” because it has historically been a birthplace of resistance fighters, and has always witnessed intense battles between its refugees and the invading occupation forces.
It looks me in the eye
and recounts to me
the many times
it let me live.
Love takes the form of rain clouds: we accumulate despite our im/possible wounds, gather even in miraculous conditions. We join our kin in the swarm, all of whom gathering, like us, as waters from unknowable sources. And then the flood.
Love takes the form of rain clouds: we accumulate despite our im/possible wounds, gather even in miraculous conditions. We join our kin in the swarm, all of whom gathering, like us, as waters from unknowable sources. And then the flood.
The building next door was stripped naked, its shattered windows gaping onto disarranged kitchens and bedrooms. My aunt’s building was leveled entirely.
“Pow,” she said, flattening the air between her hands.
here: here: here: here: take what I have in exchange
(but what do I have?) just this:
Dear sky,
where were you
when our homes were being
bombed?