Refaat Alareer gained his PhD with a dissertation on the poetry of John Donne. He taught English Literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, now destroyed. He is the editor of two collections of writing by his students, Gaza Writes Back and Gaza Unsilenced (both published by Just World Books). His journalism featured in The New York Times, and he appeared on the BBC, ABC News, and Democracy Now. He was a volunteer at the Gaza Zoo.

If I Must Die, Let It Be a Tale

If I must die,

you must live

to tell my story

to sell my things

to buy a piece of cloth

and some strings,

(make it white with a long tail)

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza

while looking heaven in the eye

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—

and bid no one farewell

not even to his flesh

not even to himself—

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above

and thinks for a moment an angel is there

bringing back love

If I must die

let it bring hope

let it be a tale

*

My grandmother would tell me to put on a heavy sweater because it would rain. And it would rain! She, like all Palestinian elderly, had a unique sense, an understanding of the earth, wind, trees, and rain. The elderly knew when to pick olives for pickling or for oil. I was always envious of that.

Sorry, Grandma. We have instead become attuned to the vagaries of war. This heavy guest visits us uninvited, unwelcomed, and undesired, perches on our chests and breaths, and then claims the lives of many, in the hundreds and thousands…

Death and war. War and Death. These two are persona non grata, yet we can’t force them to leave. To let us be.

* 

Over the Wall

“There,” points Grandma.

She had a tent that was a home.

She had a goat and a camel.

She had a rake and a fork and a trowel.

She had a machete and a watering can.

She had a grove and two hundred plants.

She had a child and another one and another one.

***

“There,” she insists.

I could not see

Because of the wall.

I could not hear

Because of the noise.

I could not smell

Because of the powder.

***

But I can always tell,

I am sure of Grandma

Who always was

And is still

And will always be.

She smells like soil.

And smiles like soil.

And blinks like soil

When touched by rain.

***

She has a house that is a tent

She has a key

And a memory.

She has a hope

And two hundred offspring.

***

Grandma is here

But lives there.

“Over there!”

*

I’m an academic. Probably the toughest thing I have at home is an Expo marker. But if the Israelis invade, if the paratroopers charge at us, going from door to door, to massacre us, I am going to use that marker to throw it at the Israeli soldiers, even if that is the last thing that I do.

Take a look inside

Refaat Alareer gained his PhD with a dissertation on the poetry of John Donne. He taught English Literature at the Islamic University of Gaza, now destroyed. He is the editor of two collections of writing by his students, Gaza Writes Back and Gaza Unsilenced (both published by Just World Books). His journalism featured in The New York Times, and he appeared on the BBC, ABC News, and Democracy Now. He was a volunteer at the Gaza Zoo.

If I Must Die, Let It Be a Tale

If I must die,

you must live

to tell my story

to sell my things

to buy a piece of cloth

and some strings,

(make it white with a long tail)

so that a child, somewhere in Gaza

while looking heaven in the eye

awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—

and bid no one farewell

not even to his flesh

not even to himself—

sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above

and thinks for a moment an angel is there

bringing back love

If I must die

let it bring hope

let it be a tale

*

My grandmother would tell me to put on a heavy sweater because it would rain. And it would rain! She, like all Palestinian elderly, had a unique sense, an understanding of the earth, wind, trees, and rain. The elderly knew when to pick olives for pickling or for oil. I was always envious of that.

Sorry, Grandma. We have instead become attuned to the vagaries of war. This heavy guest visits us uninvited, unwelcomed, and undesired, perches on our chests and breaths, and then claims the lives of many, in the hundreds and thousands…

Death and war. War and Death. These two are persona non grata, yet we can’t force them to leave. To let us be.

* 

Over the Wall

“There,” points Grandma.

She had a tent that was a home.

She had a goat and a camel.

She had a rake and a fork and a trowel.

She had a machete and a watering can.

She had a grove and two hundred plants.

She had a child and another one and another one.

***

“There,” she insists.

I could not see

Because of the wall.

I could not hear

Because of the noise.

I could not smell

Because of the powder.

***

But I can always tell,

I am sure of Grandma

Who always was

And is still

And will always be.

She smells like soil.

And smiles like soil.

And blinks like soil

When touched by rain.

***

She has a house that is a tent

She has a key

And a memory.

She has a hope

And two hundred offspring.

***

Grandma is here

But lives there.

“Over there!”

*

I’m an academic. Probably the toughest thing I have at home is an Expo marker. But if the Israelis invade, if the paratroopers charge at us, going from door to door, to massacre us, I am going to use that marker to throw it at the Israeli soldiers, even if that is the last thing that I do.

Take a look inside