My Olive Oil Blood By Maryam Haddad
Palestine is our mother, Our love, our blood, Our sweet and tender Teta She is our Friday mornings, The adhan Mint tea, zaatar, warm bread and olives We were plucked from her by force, Forefathers forced on foot, Miles from home To find a new home away from home We cling onto anything we can, Knafeh and Keffeyeh brought to life To revive our memories, our Teta’s stories Make them flourish Flowers blooming in foreign faraway lands To grow up in the diaspora Is to grow up a silent fighter Fighting for the right to hold a passport, to identity, culture, heritage, homeland. The right to be Palestinian To grow up in the diaspora Means whispered prayers at every Breaking News Our hearts sinking at each name uttered by the journalist Our eyelids stripped back against our will, to witness helplessly, aimlessly, The constant nakbas, The very horrors on our own land, Our blood On foreign soil every footstep is murder. Murder...