rehumanizing
policy
One honey eye got stuck open / watching the burned enter the street.
Artwork by Bayan Dahdah
Doll Swing Before I was myself, I was her. All the animals she stopped seeing. The angels who came down to dress her in blackberry crowns and tatreez. Beloved doll on a garden swing when flames took a city our black curls melted onto fracturing cheeks. One honey eye got stuck open watching the burned enter the street. They are still entering
Grant Proposal for Your Emergency
I first met the Gaza Strip on a television screen back in 2004, at eleven years old.
To colonizing propagandists, our story is the American Dream. To us, it’s an ongoing tragedy.
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.
I’m against my country’s revolutionaries / Wounding an ear of wheat / Against the child / Any child / Holding a grenade
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
