POEM
by Tiasha Idrak
Let us talk about death.
Let us talk about funerals.
About tombs and dignity.
About mementos and memories.
Let us talk about funeral rites,
About ablutions,
Washing the body, enveloping it in white shroud,
Whispering prayers before sending your beloved to their maker,
Ensconced in mother Earth,
A dignity in death.
Let us talk about the luxury to grieve,
To not have the ground trembling under your feet,
To not have hellfire rain down upon you,
To not die without breaking a fast,
To not shed tears for the child who didn’t survive till the next suhoor.
They say people are equal in death,
That eternal slumber is fair to all,
And yet, in the land of olives,
I see no fairness,
Where tombs take the shape of–
Vines of torn limbs and flesh,
Hanging on the wall,
Tiny tiny pieces of hope,
Little fingers, tuft of hair, remains collected in plastic bags,
“10 kg for a 6 year old.”
Sophisticated missiles to slay sleeping children
Crates devour tents,
Dates turned black on ashening trees,
Soil gray from gunpowder,
Skin peeled off the chin, hanging like paint,
Sisters, mothers burned to crisp,
Heads and limbs scattered amidst debris,
A puzzle for us hapless spectators–
Wasn’t the fire supposed to cease?
Trembling hands, lovingly stuffing a cloth
Inside a head hollowed,
A father’s fingers tenderly grasping the end of a pigtail,
His darling child cradled in his arm,
Face tilted towards the sky
Unseeing eyes posing a question–
Was Satan not shackled in this Holy Month?
The wind carries the cries of the dead,
The anguish of those still living,
Children under the rubble,
Half eaten bread in hand,
A torn slipper,
A chipped glass,
Coffee spilled, never to be sipped again.
Where homes are replaced by tents and tents replaced by nothingness,
Abandoned bookshelves in childhood homes,
Prayers buried in mass graves,
Funerals delayed,
Here in Gaza,
I see no fairness,
Here in Gaza,
They’re not allowed dignity in death.
