Oh Palestine, My Love

I’ve dreamed of visiting Palestine, the land of my ancestors, for as long as I can remember: witnessing the twisted branches of the olive trees I’ve long heard described; praying at the centuries-old Al-Aqsa mosque in Jerusalem and gazing up at the golden Dome of the Rock in all its glory; exploring the same bustling streets of Gaza my family members have walked for generations. Growing up, my mom always said she couldn’t bring herself to visit Palestine again and see her country the way it was—occupied, divided, oppressed. But in recent years, she’d come around (perhaps a sentiment that became clear with age), and a trip to Palestine seemed a realistic future endeavor—one that would include being reunited with family she hadn’t seen in decades and eating traditional Palestinian foods that taste best in the lands they originated in. But now? That hope is quickly dwindling.

I have cried every day for the last 53 days. I’ve felt overwhelming guilt going about my daily life, and I find it difficult to do everyday things like work and eat. How can I partake in the privileges of my life while my brothers and sisters overseas—whose blood runs deep within me—are suffering day after day after day after day, with no end in sight? Why do I get to live when thousands of children, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers have been murdered, and those who survive face the unfathomable? Why them and not me? I’m expected to continue on with my life and go to work, writing about food and sharing recipes with people privileged enough to make them when my own people don’t even have bread to eat or water to drink. (And don’t tell me that food isn’t political. When a government has the power to restrict access to basic needs like food and water to a captive population of more than two million people, half of them children, there is no denying the politics at play).

I’ve been doing what I can—donating, calling my congresspeople, educating others—but none of it has felt like enough. Until the murdering stops, I will continue to feel helpless. I’ve seen images that will stay with me for the rest of my life. Every day, my Instagram feed is overwhelmed with the suffering happening in Gaza, and I’m forced to decide what’s “sensational” enough to share and open people’s eyes to this massacre—this video of a young boy with his arm blown off, or that video of a man holding up the lifeless body of his child? This statistic about the number of civilians killed, or that one listing the number of children who are now orphans?

For the past seven weeks, I have watched what is amounting to the extermination of my people. I worry that what is left of Palestine today will soon be no more than a memory. That someday I’ll only be able to tell my kids about the land without having anything to show for it. Already, I have lost 40 family members. The truth is, that number is almost certainly higher, but I’m afraid to ask. My mom’s side of the family has had generations wiped out in a split second. Every day, I am paralyzed by the fear of knowing more. Every day, there are more deaths, more suffering, and less hope.

What family we are still able to communicate with tells us they are basically waiting around for death. They tell us that they all sleep in one room together, so at least if they die, they die together. There is little hope for them to survive and rebuild. A sudden and violent end now feels inevitable.

Let me be very clear about this situation: Right now, Israeli suffering cannot be equated with Palestinian suffering. One group is able to hold vigils and funerals and properly grieve in safety, while the other is forced to abandon their dead loved ones—if they can even find them—in mass graves while they grapple with the impossible task of fleeing to a safety that’s nowhere to be found. The smell of death engulfs them, and they know they very well may be next. No time to grieve, and barely any time to run before it all happens again. The difference between the two situations, in the simplest of terms, is privilege. 

If you followed me on social media before October 7th, you have seen me post about the occupation and oppression of the Palestinian people in the past. Every year, I share on my story when the IDF inevitably storms Al-Aqsa mosque during the holy month of Ramadan while Muslims are peacefully praying. I shared when Israeli forces targeted and killed Shireen Abu Akleh, the prominent Palestinian-American journalist, in 2022. I have provided multiple opportunities for others outside of my community to learn about the decades-long struggle of the Palestinian people, and I have watched over and over again as so many of those people have failed to care, failed to acknowledge the existence of those Palestinians as well as my own existence as a Palestinian-American. 

For most of my 28 years on this earth, I have watched the Western world demonize Middle Easterners and Muslims. We have been labeled terrorists over and over again simply because of the difference in our features and the religion we choose to follow. (Although it’s very important to note here that Arab Christians and Arab Jews—yes, Arab Jews—exist in that part of the world, and we should not forget them either. They are among those who are suffering right now.) I’ve watched the Western world continue to invade and destroy country after country in the Middle East—one of the most beautiful parts of the world full of some of the most peaceful, generous, resilient humans—out of greed for power, resources, and money. And for the past 53 days, Middle Easterners and Muslims have been forced to share photo after photo, video after video of slaughtered Palestinians—more than 20,000 as of this writing—to prove that our lives are worthy, but instead we’re shown by continued violence, silence from politicians, and skewed media coverage that our blood is cheap and no number of bodies is enough to humanize us. 

The sad reality is that much of this world has become immune to empathy. We can’t seem to feel pain and anger about something unless it’s happening right on our very own doorstep. Just three years ago, we stood beside our Black brothers and sisters and marched for George Floyd and against police brutality. Many of those voices who were loud and proud in the face of that injustice are suddenly nowhere to be found when it comes to speaking out against the present injustice. Here I’ll remind you that none of us can be free until all of us are free. 

To those who continue to ask, “Why don’t the Palestinians just leave?” my question to you is, where exactly do you expect them to go? Palestinians are not granted the freedom of other groups—the freedom of movement, the freedom of dual citizenship (or any citizenship for that matter), the freedom to do as they please. And why should they be forced to abandon their own homes? My grandparents were pushed out of Jaffa, in what is now known as Israel, at a very young age during the 1948 Nakba. 75 years later, Palestinians continue to be displaced from their homes—homes that they or their ancestors built with their own hands, homes that are the only ones they’ve known their whole lives. They continue to be uprooted from a land that is woven within their history and identity.  

To my Jewish brothers and sisters who have spoken up and stood beside Palestinians in this fight for liberation—all too while they hurt and grieve in their own ways—I see you and I appreciate you more than I will ever be able to express. Anti-Semitism is very real and I’m doing my part to speak up against it. To those who have chosen to speak out against genocide, oppression, apartheid, and colonization, you are on the right side of history, and that won’t be forgotten. To those who have chosen silence over action in an attempt to remove themselves from the situation, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. And to those who have chosen to play the victim to deflect from the suffering Palestinians are facing—or worse, to justify it—that is, once again, privilege in action. I have watched certain people condemn violence when Israeli lives were at stake, only to exhibit a deafening silence at the utter devastation of violence against Palestinians. This privileging of one set of innocent civilian lives over another is nothing short of racism. If you have grandparents who survived the Holocaust and you are actively choosing to turn a blind eye to what’s happening today, what lessons have you learned from the atrocities they faced? 

I’ve had friends I haven’t spoken to in years reach out to express their sorrow and horror about what’s happening, while some of my closest friends have remained silent. I don’t want to expend energy on anger and resentment, but I can’t say I haven’t taken note. To those of you who have reached out to me, thank you for listening, acknowledging my pain, making space for me, and supporting me in your own special ways. 

A number of people have asked what they can do to support my community and me right now. The answer is simple: Don’t let this become another news cycle. Keep educating yourself and others; keep spreading information as far and as wide as you can; keep calling your representatives to demand a ceasefire; keep talking about this within your circles; keep protesting until the voices for peace, freedom, and liberation drown out those of hate and destruction. We need as many voices as we can get right now, and we need our non-Arab and non-Muslim brothers and sisters to stand alongside us in this fight. Posting on social media isn’t everything, but I urge you to please do something. If you feel you don’t know enough, now is the time to learn. If anything, you know that bombing innocent civilians is wrong, and that should be enough for you to take a stand, especially when your tax dollars are funding said bombing. And for those of you who have taken it upon themselves to protest, don’t put those signs down or move past this moment. Don’t lose steam, because this is just the beginning. 

I want to say I have hope because that’s what I’m supposed to say. I’m terrified of what the next few months will bring. It’s hard to have hope these days, but the resilience of the Palestinian people is what keeps me going. The size of the protests around the world—where people are finally acknowledging our being and letting the word “Palestine” pass through their lips over and over again, all while they wave our beautiful flag and learn about our history—is what gives me hope. Being able to attend November 4th’s March for Palestine in DC—the largest demonstration for Palestine in US history, with an estimated 300,000 supporters in attendance—gave me hope. The people are finally being awakened. And the only thing that brings me even the smallest amount of comfort is knowing that the more than 20,000 martyrs are with God in the highest level of Jannah. You cannot defeat a people who believe deep within them that death is not the end. 

You may be tired of my Instagram stories, but I will not be going back to regular content anytime soon. I refuse to stop speaking out in the face of injustice. I refuse to let the Palestinian people be silenced. Sharing their stories and exposing the truth is the absolute least I can do. I won’t let them be forgotten. Because until Palestine is free, it will always be Free Palestine. 

Copyright 2023 hy Yasmine Maggio

Yasmine Maggio is a food editor and writer. Her work has been featured in Women’s Health and L’Officiel USA. She holds a Bachelor of Arts in Writing, Rhetoric, and Technical Communications from James Madison University, and a Master of Arts in Journalism from New York University.

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Dead Boys

Dead Boys
by J.Khan

Title and last line after "Dead Girls" by Kim Addonizio
The camera pans hillside jungle
before zooming to our hero,
face up, body splayed,
and stubbed by a missing limb.
Next, the signature close up:
angled handsome jawline,
blue eyes snuffed and clueless.

In another film studio, 
buddies find their missing brother 
on the road to Kandahar. Someone drops 
bloodied dogtags in a Ziploc baggie
to be delivered to the house 
where he grew up playing Call of Duty,
where death was an internet hiccup.

Nothing grips a theater
like a busted-up hero. His platoon's 
gonna 'copter what's left of him
to medics who will trundle him 
upon a reddening stretcher,
cut & stitch him back to life, 
unsever 
his arteries unless he dies first.
Who would want to be him?
Any Johnny raised on YouTube

and spaghetti westerns who can pocket 
a few Glocks and enough rounds,
strap on some Kevlar. Even plain Joe
who feels he don't amount to much
and likely won't, already convinced
that his kind can't get a fair shake.
Except that he can be that hero,
glittering redeemer of the race
thick in the fusillade of gun and riflefire,
the special, dead, dead boy.
 
Copyright 2023 by J.Khan

J Khan is a Midwestern poet. His writings have recently appeared in I-70 Review, Burn Before Reading, New Letters Magazine, Thorny Locust, and Coal City Review. His Chapbook Speech in an Age of Certainty is available from Finishing Line Press. He has two illustrated poetry books nearing completion.

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A Wreath of War Gogyohka*

A Wreath of War Gogyohka*
by  Robert Findysz     

(War Again: October 2023)
this time a massive assault if only from Gaza
Hamas terror cells come by sea, overland, in the air
thousands of rockets falling randomly everywhere
so many butchered, elderly, women, babies too
even more are wounded, civilian and military
hundreds of hostages swept underground

(When Will It Ever End)
I breathe in a deep, dark tunnel
not a ray of light at the other end
never liked going through such funnels
the on-going nightmare blurs my focus
I am trapped within a dense fog

(En Route to Evacuated Nitzan)
sky blue cluttered by peevish clouds
long hedges of lilac-on-silver cenizo
roadside bougainvillea in a riot of flavors 
checkerboards of unharvested cotton 
Chinese flame trees in a flush of rust tones

 (Golden Crescent in a Dark Velvet Night)
two Israeli hostages are released
American citizenship seems to pay off
the other 200 some remain out of sight
a scimitar swinging over their heads

(Waiting for a Ground Invasion of Gaza)
vines on the stone wall are turning carmine 
as a Sanguine Moon blushes above the city
an open bottle of rosé sits on the Sabbath table
homemade challah on a wooden cutting board
flowers of the season in a Polish crystal vase
lit candlesticks pierce the smothering unknown 

(Bring Them Home Now)
cheered on by the pale Hunter's Moon
a withering easterly blusters and shrieks
tail winds urging ground incursions into Gaza
before or instead of a full force invasion
to exact retribution for unspeakable atrocities
neuter Hamas, free all hostages

* Gogyohka: a five (or four or six) line, modern Japanese poetic form, unrhymed, each line only one phrase of any length, originally untitled.

– Bob Findysz, Kibbutz Palmach-Tzuba

Copyright Bob Findysz October 2023

Born in Chicago, raised in the suburbs, Bob Findysz went to Israel after completing graduate work at the University of Chicago: married, lived in a small desert community for a few years before settling in Jerusalem, later moving to a nearby kibbutz where his wife and he remain with three grown children and nine grandchildren all living within easy driving distance.Retired at 67 after forty-some years of teaching English to Israeli high school and university students, with periodic leaves-of-absence, Bob is now writing for himself; his poems have appeared in anthologies and journals, printed and electronic, since 2017.

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On Holy War

On Holy War
by Truth Thomas

How fragile is the congregation of flesh
and quiet are corpses that litter the ground.

I pass your service, after most of the guests
have gone. A headless boy stops and asks me

if he’s Israeli or a Palestinian’s son, and which
of the bullets that struck him, was the holy one.

Copyright 2023 by Truth Thomas

Truth Thomas is a singer-songwriter, poet, and photographer born in Knoxville, Tennessee and raised in Washington, DC. He is the founder of Cherry Castle Publishing and studied creative writing at Howard University under Dr. Tony Medina. Thomas earned his MFA in poetry at New England College. The creator of the “Skinny” poetry form, his collections include Party of Black, A Day of Presence, Bottle of Life, and Speak Water, winner of the 2013 NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Literary Work in Poetry.  His poems have appeared in over 150 publications, including The 100 Best African American Poems (edited by Nikki Giovanni).

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Oh My God

Oh My God
by JoAnn Lord Koff

Oh my God, who may not be the God you pray to, 
why do we kill each other and betray your word? 
God of many names, many sects, many ethnicities, various DNA, we should have no enemies, 
nor be engaging in hate or hostilities, not as a Christian, a Muslim, a Jew, 
an Arab or any randomized sect.
Pope Francis, where are you?
Why isn’t the Catholic church decrying the atrocities involving babies and toddlers being used as human shields? 
Oh my God, not yours, how do you sit and just watch us kill each other?  
Human carnage and misery in Israel right now casts a long dark shadow upon the face of all humanity.
All blood runs red.
Those speechless are silent lunatics and shield the perpetrators.
The dead will be buried beneath earthen beds and arise as ashen souls tethered to this event, never to breathe the luster of light or brotherhood again.
Bullets, swords, bombs, unattended by God’s grace, aimed to kill innocents, in the hopes of carving out loving hearts.
Oh my God, how is it that mankind always needs an enemy to kill? 
Is hatred a characteristic of being human? 
Is your plan to start over and create a different model of mankind after we annihilate each other?
Oh my God, don’t cry; I’m sorry, but I envision this to be the end.  
It is near, I fear.

Copyright 2023 by JoAnn Lord Koff

JoAnn Lord Koff, author of Sand, Pebbles, Fossils, and Rocks, a nominee for the Library of Virginia’s Literary Award in Poetry, 2019. InsideNoVa Best Author, 2021. VP of Write by the Rails, and Artist in ART4US.

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Luckily for Me

Luckily for Me
by Mario Badino

Luckily for me, I’ve never seen
corpses in the street,
but I know the televised images 
the bodies of massacred children,
the delicate faces,
and bombs are certainly not exclusive,
not even from far away,
some scary and ugly terrorists, 
of those with the beard or the flag:
the instigators wear jackets, 
jackets and ties; and the aviators,
celestial performers,
they wear real uniforms and ranks, up there, in the highest heavens;
they strike men of good will on the earth.

Luckily for me, I’ve never seen
explosions that shatter the peace,
and I already have little tolerance for scooters, fireworks,
people on cell phones; I can't imagine
who is at home when the roof collapses,
the floor above comes below
I die crushed, broken,
because below, or above or to the side
lives – lived – the target,
with his family, his children, or alone.

Translated by Mike Maggio and Mario Badino ©2023

IO PER FORTUNA
di Mario Badino

Io per fortuna non ne ho visti mai,
cadaveri in strada,
ma so le immagini trasmesse,
i corpi di bambini massacrati,
i visi delicati;
e certo le bombe non sono l’esclusiva,
neppure di lontano,
dei terroristi spaventosi e brutti,
di quelli con la barba e la bandiera:
i mandanti indossano la giacca,
giacca e cravatta (appretto); e gli aviatori,
celesti esecutori,
portano divise e gradi veri, lassù, nell’alto dei cieli;
centrano in terra gli uomini di buona volontà.

Io per fortuna non ne ho viste mai,
esplosioni che squarciano la quiete,
e già tollero poco i motorini, i botti,
la gente al cellulare; non riesco a immaginare
che sono in casa quando crolla il tetto,
il piano sopra se ne viene sotto
muoio schiacciato, rotto,
perché di sotto, o sopra oppure a lato
vive – viveva – il terrorista,
con la famiglia, i figli, oppure solo.

Copyright by Mario Badino 2023

Mario Badino was born in Turin in 1975, grew up in the Alps and then moved to Apulia, in the South of Italy, where he lives with Silvia and their children, Emma and Riccardo. He teaches Italian in middle school and is the author of three books of poetry (“Cianfrusaglia”, “Barricate!” and “Santificare le feste”). He’s a member of the poetic collective SlammalS, that promotes spoken-word poetry in Apulia. You can read more about him on his web site.

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To Live

To Live
by Yerusalem Work

I seek forgiveness 
without the shedding of blood. 
Adam, alayhi salaam, learned words of inspiration from God. 
Between us, 
is there forgiveness for what we have done? 
Rockets remind us we look upon the same sky. 
Rocks slung from David to Goliath—generations of conquering giants. We are more devoted to Muhammad, peace be upon him, 
than an earthly king’s subjects are to the crown. 
For believers, this world is upside down. 
We are under pressure to obey our oppressors. 
To Allah we belong 
and to Allah we return. 
To Palestine we belong 
and to Palestine we return. 
To Ethiopia, I belong and to Ethiopia I return. 
Torn from home, 
I worship God alone. How will we know our repentance has been accepted? 
Will the woman at the well fetch water or 
does she have a story to tell? Will Ethiopia despite her alliances heal her daughters? 
I see the sacrifice the innocent make, the burnt face. 
We kill our brothers. 
We die in ongoing struggles. 
A peace offering—a poem. 
To give birth to a child 
unfettered by apartheid, 
unhampered by inequality. 
To smile from the inside. 
To live with dignity and pride. 

Copyright 2023 by Yerusalem Work

Yerusalem (Yeru) Work has a heart for interfaith dialogue. She is an award-winning essayist and bestselling author of poetry and short stories available on Amazon. She earned a master’s degree in library science and a bachelor’s degree in film studies. As an Ethiopian-American artist, educator, and librarian, she wishes everyone compassion and endless inspiration. She lives in the Washington DC area and her web site is https://yerusalemwork.wixsite.com/thenewjerusalem

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Gaza

Gaza
by Gene Bruskin

As a non-observant but well-qualified Jew, 
Having lost family in a Russian pogrom,
Once visiting Israel, as an internationalist first, a Jew second,
My Jewish side having long reveled in the Jewish Bund, 
The Workman’s Circle, heroic textile worker Clara Lemlich,
Having supported many revolts against the powerful, foreign and domestic,
I met with Palestinian workers about their rights.
At my airport departure, an armed Israeli guard locked me in a closet, 
Demanding names of Palestinian workers whom I had met.
This war leaves me distraught and outraged.
Why is that, since Jews were crushed in Europe,
Palestinians had to be crushed in the Middle East?
Conveniently for the US,
The guilty West put the Jews in the middle again, old story.
And now they have become like the West, and then some.
The traumatized oppressed become oppressors. 
Is it ok that Palestinians suffer daily, 
Because Jews want a homeland?
Is it ok for a Brooklyn Jew to join a settlement,
With full rights over a displaced Palestinian, now stranded across a field?

Copyright 2023 by Gene Bruskin

Gene Bruskin was born to a Jewish working class family in South Philadelphia and has been a life-long social justice activist, union organizer, poet, and playwright. Since his formal retirement from the labor movement (“redeployed” as he describes it),  Gene has produced two musicals for and about workers and is currently producing a 3rd, The Return of John Brown.

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In the World War III Museum

In the World War III Museum
by Don Kingfisher Campbell

In the World War III Museum
by Don Kingfisher Campbell
 
Piles of melted steel, rubbled bricks, and scattered wood shards to walk around for hours
 
Shells of ships, planes, trucks, and cars to gaze at from an uncomfortable short distance
 
Shadows of humans, dogs, cats, even mice to be observed on walls and floors so close you can almost touch them
 
Videos of world leaders in disagreement, of people segregated in differently named countries and neighborhoods, in this bunker
 
Finally, on these tables, mounds of cooked hair, scrapings of charred flesh, and chunks of fragmented bones as evidence we were all the same

Copyright 2023 by Don Kingfisher Campbell

Don Kingfisher Campbell, MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University Los Angeles, taught Writers Seminar at Occidental College Upward Bound for 36 years, been a coach and judge for Poetry Out Loud, a performing poet/teacher for Red Hen Press Youth Writing Workshops, L.A. Coordinator and Board Member of California Poets In The Schools, poetry editor of the Angel City Review, publisher of Four Feathers Press, and host of the Saturday Afternoon Poetry reading series in Pasadena, California. For awards, features, and publication credits, please go to: http://dkc1031.blogspot.com

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Washing War Off Me

Washing War Off Me
by Susan Notar

The sun hovers like a raw red egg yolk
over the water at the edge of the horizon.
Dogs dodge, children squeal.
Somewhere a colibri sips sugar
from a purple climber vine.

I sit sipping Herrudura
freshly squeezed lime
from a salt-rimmed glass
watching.

	Emblazoned in my memory
	a child is pulled from the rubble in Aleppo
	a sixteen-year-old girl is raped on a public street in Bucha.

How at the sea
when the sky isn’t scarred 
by buildings or bombs biting it
we allow ourselves peace.

Somehow the sea heals me too
and allows me to hope for the return
of the light.

Copyright 2023 by Susan Notar

Susan Notar is a Pushcart prize nominated poet who has flown over Iraq in helicopters wearing body armor and makes a mean beurre blanc sauce.  Her work has appeared in numerous publications including Antologia de Poemas, Alianza Latina, Burningword, Burgeon, The Bridgewater Review, The Forgotten River, Gyroscope, Joys of the Table:  An Anthology of Culinary Verse; Penumbra, The Poet, Poets for Ukraine, The Poetry Society of Virginia Centennial Anniversary Anthology, and Written in Arlington.  She works for the U.S. State Department helping vulnerable communities in the Middle East.

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