HEBRON

I yearn to the starry nights of your grape-vine fields on a summer night.

Once we were children and walked all over your hilly plains. 

Like fools we walked on for hours:

    No buses,

          No cars,

                   No bicycles,

    But walked on foot anxious and eager to reach to your sweet grapes,

          And your plum trees

                             And fig trees. 

We were young and restless.

    We were young and foolish.

          We thought of nothing but the moment.

                   We wanted to run from home to the warmth of your fields,

                                      And we did.

How beautiful that was! 

The rocky and rugged mountains, a picture that remains in my mind.

The days of bird watching and listening to the Al-Hassoon chirp

    Sent us to a deep ecstasy. 

Then we saw no soldiers,

    No guns,

          No military jeeps,

                  

Hebron, I am as foolish today as when I was ten: 

    I miss your grape-vine fields.

          I miss your fig trees

                   I miss your afternoon breeze

Now your fields are filled with smoke.

Al-Hassoon no longer chirps,

    And has left frightened by the blast.

The grapes are bitter and sour

    For they have not seen the sun of freedom

And the stars waned

    For their light was subdued by injustice

Ahmad, the Arab

Don’t ask about my name and my address,

For, the night and the stars are my brothers and sisters;

And the planets of the world are my companions,

And the will of God protects me.

I have lost my family and friends,

Wandering weary in this foreign land.

I have asked the night to hold me,

To hold be beneath its wings;

And the stars guided me to my eternal garden.

I am Ahmad, the Arab.

I am looking for a shade and a garden.

I am searching for a home and an address.

I am searching for a friend and a human,

And I search for identify and citizenship;

And I chase after a passport

To justify in it my humanity to those who oppress me;

And I have taken from

 This foreign land,

A SHELTER…

To my children;

To my beloved;

And to myself;

And I wandered far away;

Stranger in a strange land

Burying  my pain and my sorrow;

In this huge distance

Do not ask me about my name and my address.

For the night is my house,

and the stars are my lanterns;

And back East I have a home,

That calls me every morning.

Palestinian-Arab

Apprehensive I feel…

I don’t know where to start…

The rage and anger is locked inside.

Driven by passion and crippled by distant emotions,

I hide behind my struggle and I don’t know how to come out.

How to have the courage to curse the darkness;

How to stand up and light a candle;

How to tell a story that was told a million times,

But never through my tongue, heart and lips.

Where do I start and how shall I end?

Never able to articulate and I go in circles.

I, Like a tempest, a volcano, a squall- dormant

But beware when it comes out.

My friend, I shall tell my story.

I shall unlock my lips and my heart.

I shall pour my tears

Tears of anger,

Tears of fear, and

Tears of years of isolation and injustice.

I was born to a place, I cannot call my own.

I was born to a place glorious yet could not hold my soul and tears.

And would not give me hope.

Everything I saw in there made me sick.

Paradoxical land.  Beautiful yet sickening.

Holy, yet sacrilegious,

Fervent, yet dull.

My friend,

I am a stranger,

A visitor…

Living in this strange land.

However, loved and accepted I am,

I shall be stranger to the day I die.

I still yearn to my mother land;

My life, my friend, is colored with years of injustice and fear.

Why? I ask.

Was I born with a curse?

Was my neighbor born to a better God?

I hope you get the picture by now.

I am the son of misery;

They are the sons and daughters of joy and fortune.

I am the son of poverty;

They are the sons and daughters of wealth and excess.

I am the son of the weak;

They are the sons and daughters of the strong and powerful.

I am, who the world watches for,

They are those who are cared for.

Should I say more? My friend.

Did you get the drift?

I shall be clear and succinct

And spare the rhetoric:

I am the Palestinian,

The Arab you forgot and still fear.

You equate me to Bombs.

You hear of me only when CNN brings me to your home…

Disfigured…

Maladjusted…

And thirsty for blood.

I am the Palestinian Arab.

The one who you are not sure of.

But if you look into my eyes and ask me, I will tell you.

No I am not a sheik.

No my father does not own an Oil well;

And no… I don’t herd sheep;

I do not live in a tent;

And I never rode a Camel.

It is true, I pray to a God called “Allah”;

Yes, I dress differently;

Should that make me less than you?

Through the years,

You called me names;

And cut a deep wound in my heart.

Today, I ask you to join me and dress my wound…

I won’t fight or blame you for the damage you have done.

I just pray that our wounds may all heal.

My friend,

I tell you …

I know that you have watched me bleeding and left me on the side of the road alone.

I tell you …

That your righteous silence crippled my body and soul.

I tell you …

That your fear of my face and my religion, made you blind to see me.

I tell you …

That the way you interpret your holy books put a dagger in my heart.

And using the name of God, you wrote my obituary while I am still alive.

My friend… lets forget all that, and shall we start fresh.

Know me as I know myself!

I am good and humble;

I love to learn and read;

I love people and love to be loved;

I love to have a place to call home;

I like to be respected in the Airports of the World;

And in every border;

I love to have schools for my children;

And a job to feed my family;

I like to travel in my own country without having to carry my passport around my neck.

I like to stroll with my wife and kids…

In the streets…

Or in the public park…

Without fear and apprehension.

I like to…

Well I hope you get the drift…

Because I am tired of trying to prove that I am like you.

I have similar dreams and desires…

Do you get my drift?

Destiny

Was I supposed to be…

In here?

In There?

Or,.. Somewhere?

Floating like an autumn leaf;

Having no place to call home;

Tossed again and again by the wind;

Gentle at times;

Fierce and destructive at other times

Am I the child of man?

Or am I the child of morbid destiny

Following my crippled path

Seeking fortune and joy…

Amidst destruction.

Things That I Notice and Think by Sarah Bader

Today, Sarah,  my 9 year old daughter surprised me with a poem she wrote in five minutes while she was on a field trip with her school. Here is what she wrote:

I sit down quiet and cold;

 And thoughtful of who I am ;

And thinking about how God made me fine the way I am and not selfish.

Peaceful and cold, I hear a bird humming a quiet melody;

 A shooting star;

 I make a wish and cross my fingers to hope my wish comes true.

Trees shaking cause they're so cold;

 Trees around me;

 They remind me of the forest.

God made me perfect the way I am.

A poem by Sarah Bader (age 9)