rehumanizing
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Baba once mentioned how Palestinians were the patient dough of the Taboon. No matter how much we are kneaded, beaten, and stretched beyond our limits, our capacity for hope is supernatural. Taboon, even burnt beyond recognition, is still Taboon.
Poems by Rashid Hussain, translated from Arabic by Salma Harland Against ضد I’m against my country’s revolutionaries Wounding an ear
I am the stranger / The shadow beneath the cloud / Adrift and looming over my land
He wears winter and searches for another land, / Where he will say to the raining clouds, / To sow the sea in a land other than the one we know. / Hope was the last breath of the traveler, / Hope was his land.
You learn to make your gods as small as a coffee cup and hide your future in it
Why are these babies asking too much when they demand nothing but the most basic human rights?
My grandma had a farm in Gaza where her children played outside. Only her two oldest sons remember living there.
We are the land and the land is us. / Its holiness and grime cannot be dispelled from us.
We will open the day for you, and the night. We know that you are beneath the earth, or ash
At a hospital-turned-housing-shelter, a father wept, cradling his newborn son at the gate of Al Shifa hospital.
Planes claim the sky; claim mothers and fathers, / Claim dreams, futures, one last kid's hope
We will open the day for you, and the night. We know that you are beneath the earth, or ash
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