لم تَعد خاطرة
،ولا ذكرى
،إنها حاضرة في القلب
وفي النظرة
،حتى الهواء إذا هب ذكرُك
هبّ ونادى
فلسطينْ
كأن الريح منك إلينا
والسماء ٱنعكاس مرآتك
كأن حبات التراب وأنا منها
تهتز وتنادي
.فلسطينْ
!فلسطين
لم تعد خاطرة
بل حاضرة ،
وجودًا ووجدانا
مكانا وازمانا
لم تعد حدودا وخريطة ،
بل في جسم كل حر
عجبي من بلد كلنا
.ولسنا فيه
.فلسطين

كيف ننسى اسم شارعنا فحيفا تشهدُ أنّ دمانا أحيت مُستحيلا ، هل لو عشتَ عُمرا بينَ أزقّةِ القدس تسمعُ من حجارتها صهيلا ؟
لا ولن تهنى بعيشٍ نحنُ للأرضِ التراب
وأنتَ أوحالٌ لماضٍ مرّهُ نحنُ العقاب
ونحنُ ذا هُنا لو كبُرنا نبقى جزءاً من مداد
ندري وندري ولست تدري أننا قفلُ هذا الباب.

Dear Palestine,
I’ve been away from you for almost a year now and I think you could imagine the heartbreak of your child away from you , I miss you.
I miss every little detail within your borders, the smell of thyme , the sight of birds in the early morning, the footsteps of school children running in the street, the spirit of teenagers partying and laughing despite all sufferance, the innocence of kids playing under their building, the flag flying high in the sky, the look on a young man face after coming back from clashes proudly, the artists performing dabke dances in national holidays, the youth making rebellious posters and sharing them everywhere in wast el balad, the rocks of an old Bethlehem house filled with flowers, the air of Ramallah playing with your hair in a windy night.
I missed you.
I miss my family.
I miss my friends.
I miss my memories.
I love you so much my dear homeland and if it’s my choice I will never leave you and would never accept to see you suffering.
From a child you raised.
Peace be surrounding your beautiful fields my Palestine.

"لف و ارجع"

جملة بكرهها بتمنعني ادخل احلى اماكن بلادي زي يافا و القدس و عكا و حيفا و غزة ،بطلع على الجندي بأستحقار لأنو بعرف متعتو. بس يشوف معاناتك و بعطي نظرة اخيرة كلها قوى بعيدة عن الانكسار و بلف و برجع. بس حيجي يوم هو يلف و يرجع ونا بدي احكيلو يلف و يرجع و كلنا بدنا ياهم يلفو و يرجعو يرجعو و احنا ترجعلنا فلسطين تاعتنا.

A part of you lives in this hurting heart of mine,

Seeking your sweet spirit, oh beloved Palestine.

With deep longing to gift you the old olive vine,

And envelop your entirety with love, to enshrine.

‍

By where, what and when are you dully defined?

Holy, glory and eternity, yet pierced by their tine.

Savage, sacrilegious souls, so wretched and blind, they cannot even hide, the jovial joy

they indulge in the carnage of apartheid.

‍

Everything massacred, your beds to dust, in Sheikh Jarrah, the woeful child, his world void

of colour in Gaza. I ache in your name, oh my once beloved Qiblah, but you will soar above

their plots oh beloved Al Aqsa. And your grandeur will shine, for I have hope in your Lord

and mine, the King of all Kings, our beloved Allah.

Ya ummi please come back

Without you the world seems black

I feel scared here alone

This path to me is unknown

‍

Ya ummi, who will comb my hair

And my favourite meals , prepare.

Ya ummi, Who will cover my ears

When the missiles cause me fear.

‍

Ya ummi, I search and search

Hoping you would just emerge.

Ya ummi, though this is His desire

To grant you the stages of shahadat, higher.

‍

Ya ummi, in jannah wait for me

When we will unite in glee.

Ya ummi, when we reach there

Then from you no one can separate me.

Palestine Will Be Free, Poem ©

As I walk down the Main Street in the Old City,

Passing the markets and faintly hearing muffled screams.

I see the stray cats and orphans and it is a pity,

The poor families they struggle in patience as it is their means.

Walking on to greet a traumatised family from ruined Gaza,

The land is ours, you hurt millions and destroy lives just for land.

Watching the mother die as the son mourns with his father,

Everyone knows it's ours, every single grain of sand.

I now hear the melodious voice of the muezzin call to prayer,

Just some metres ahead in the sacred mosque Temple Mount.

You kill thousands, it's fine: a Muslim kills one and it's Terror,

I am grabbed harshly and arrested as I now lose count.

My sight turns to dozens of armed Israeli soldiers,

They attack me as everyone observes my killing.

The force harder than a hundred boulders,

For them it's pleasure, for us it's grieving.

As my life ends my heart enters Al – Aqsa,

The stains of blood and hundreds of bullet holes I see.

Stop the torture to the innocent, Palestine needs a prayer,

We want freedom, Palestine; it's ours and it will be free.

Free Palestine, I am Palestine,

As we silently die, the world thinks it's fine,

I am Palestine

Free Palestine

Support Palestine

Justice for Palestine

‍

~Sulaimaan Ahmed

A person can sometimes fall in love with a place. Maybe to his homeland, maybe to a place where he feels and admires as his homeland. Maybe to a place where he has good times, maybe to a place where he has a loved one. To a place he had never seen, always hoped to see, or enjoyed every time he saw it. He could fall in love with a place that he thought gave him peace, happiness, excitement and love.

I also fell in love somewhere. To the place where I feel like my homeland, where I was neither born nor satisfied. It filled my heart. I fell in love with a place I've never been to but always hoped to go to. To a place that gives me peace and love. To a place where my loved ones have been, not myself. I fell in love with Jerusalem, the city of the prophets...

Grief in my homeland

grief must be felt

chewed and swallowed

before Monday

so you can go to work 9 to 5

but for those denied justice

grief must be articulated

presented as coherent sentences

served with perfect grammar

enhanced with statistics

it must be spitted out

without fumbling

in the power houses of the oppressed

and company of well meaning allies

grief must be intricately woven

in the stories children hear

horrors of a night

long over, painted vividly for them

so that they carry on the rage and the fight

grief must be carefully archived

in reports and investigations

frozen in songs and poems

grief is not just felt

in my homeland

it is memorised

repeated

chanted

crystallized and

passed on

‍

By Shimaila (from kashmir)

(From Kashmir to Palestine occupation is a crime )

I have to speak, as the gag loosens abit,

I have To walk, even as my legs feel boneless,

I have to sallow, hope even if only destruction Takes place.

I have to.

For with all the years, all the killed, all the Ruination,

the World is not blind anymore,

So I must teach them, how to see.

And in the journey,

In the ashes and fire,

Palestine will be free

Again,

& so be it,

For my heart.

‍

"Millionaire Strength" by Maryam Bushra.

Dedicated to Palestine

In the perspective of its people.