‘This land absorbs the skins of martyrs.This land promises wheat and stars.Worship it! We are its salt and its water. We are its wound, but a wound that fights.‘ – Mahmoud darwish
I was born on my grandfather’s land declared by others not rightfully mine.
I was beaten, humiliated, imprisoned and watched my mother ill treated and I’m supposed to be all fine?
Don’t forget I was born seeing destruction and death yet you don’t want a fight? – what you expect me to give thanks?
I was taught before I could even walk to differentiate between the sounds of missiles and tanks.
I see your mocking face while you murder knowing I will never be in the witness box.
So I dodge and dive from your bullets and I carry on throwing my rocks.
Maybe I’ll never be able to compete with your fancy guns and your warplanes but I’ll be damned if I run.
You see my father’s image still lingers in my head and my mothers scream still echoes in my ears.
Rest in peace you raised a good son.
Under siege is all that is known.
I will not rest until I reclaim this land my own.