I am a Palestinian.
I was born a Palestinian.
And every cell in my tired old body tells me that I will die a Palestinian.
Not that I am very old at sixty six: a babe in arms like my twin sister Israel, born, as my Christian friend proudly told me, in the blessed year 1948.
“A good year to be born in for it heralds Christ’s second coming after the Temple is built…”
And if ever built by Israel, Blair, Obama and others, it will never be completed, for, in its completion, will be the end.
So, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa a tourist attraction it will be:
Here stands the Second Temple with a hole by its side awaiting completion when Colgate, Coca Cola and M&S say it can be.
I am aged because tired:
Tired of waiting.
Tired of dreaming.
Tired of wishing.
Tired of poetising.
Tired of witnessing the agony of not dying.
Tired of missing out.
Missing out on my land.
Missing out on my Gaza childhood.
Missing out on my Jerusalem youth.
Missing out on my Palestinian university.
Missing out on my Netanyeh seaside wedding.
Missing out on my child’s first step in a Haifa park.
Missing out on beautiful good food cooked by my ancient aunt in Tulkarm.
Missing out on so much that had never happened.
As, ageing apace, I wait, watch, wish, want, seek, strive and, memory abating, never find.
But, age, no age, sister Israel or enemy Israel, memory or no memory, life or death; I do have one thing left.
Hope. Eternal, warm, endless hope representing liberty and peace ahead…
For me, maybe.
For others, definitely.Tags: Middle-East, Political Poetry
Categorised in: Article
This post was written by Faysal Mikdadi