I am not sure I can fit

all that my occupier hates 

into a single list. 

‍

He hates my being, 

so he kills us by the tens of thousands.

‍

He hates my laughter,

so he bombs and burns my days to misery. 

‍

He hates my sleep, 

so his jets and rockets roar all night.  

‍

He hates my smile, 

so he awakes me into nightmares.  

‍

He hates our heroes,

so he invents his Wonder Woman, Gal. 

‍

He hates the Torah’s villains, 

so he calls us Amalekites and slays us in their place. 

‍

He hates Allah and Jesus, 

so he desecrates our mosques, churches, and hospitals.

‍

He hates my books,

so he burns and buries them in rubble.

‍

He hates my flesh, 

so he leaves my rotting body to the dogs.  

‍

He hates my children,

so he beheads them with his snipers and tanks. 

‍

He hates the truth, 

so he kills our journalists and sells his propaganda. 

‍

He hates our students,

so he shells and shoots them in their schools.   

‍

He fears our poetry, 

so he kills our poets, not knowing each death writes another line.

‍

Dance in the middle of the street, 

Move inside storms of adrenaline. 

‍

In a caged city, but never a caged soul. 

You stole my land but not my identity. 

‍

Dabka is in our blood.  

You will never steal it. 

Step right, step left, jump up. 

Move to the tabla and timbrel. 

‍

Hand in hand across the floor, 

Kofia shakes at every lifted shoulder. 

‍

Sweat is the fruit of joy,

watering our roots in Palestine. 

‍

Let olive leaves rustle and, hands clap.

Let us dance, then fly free as canaries. 

‍

Published on Falastin Magazine

‍

The bombs don't go easy on the climate. 

The weather is too darn hot today. 

And I wonder what burns my eyes more, 

the sweat or the scenes of genocide 

from Gaza. 

At this moment, I can't stop thinking of myself and my friends 

as sheep dragged to their slaughter, the korban of Eid. 

But God's name this time is Yahweh.

My name is Amalekite.

Amalekite—fashionable name for a korban. 

You know I have never seen Gaza from a boat in

 the middle of the Mediterranean.

And I am not daring enough to swallow my saliva and 

ask you how my house looks from a far. 

I can't even ask: Did you see my house?

I wish I could be with you.

I wonder how humanity can be carried in a boat? 

Isn't it supposed to be heavier, bigger? 

I wanted to thank you for carrying humanity in a boat. 

But as a recognized human animal,

I am not sure what humanity is. 

I keep asking about my other half:

What is human? 

Yours sincerely, 

The human animal, Basman

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