Areej—the Scent of Youth and Death
Your name still wafts through Alleys and centuries of stone with Which old
Hebron—Khalil the Compassionate— Wraps itself. No mercy there Only settlers strutting Gloating in the knowledge that the siege, Barbed wire
and curfew, Encircle
only you And yours For theirs is the space Erased from the law A blank page stained with Spilled
blood and scribbles of insanity While yours is the youth and
blood spilled—what Wanton abandon—seeping Almost,
almost unnoticed, into crevices Where memory almost sleeps. (In Hebron, an 18-year-old
woman died, caught in the crossfire) You almost finished high
school, with Your unwritten certificate, a pass— Safe passage through a
different siege, instead, A bland testimonial of blind
death groping—obscene Bullets, how many, penetrating virgin flesh Untouched,
violated now unseen, The evil of anonymous
listings, Areej, shall not Rob you of that which is yours: the thick Long lashes,
ruddy cheeks, lips full of unkissed Promises
(You should be happy, child, your Mother said, no need for blush,
mascara
Or fake vanities). I saw you, Face
made up, wrapped in your coffin, not my (Or
your mother’s) arms.
Artificial death. Its ugliness left no mark, (Your
hair a glossy main—no head wounds Discerned.) The neighbor’s boy was
smitten. Averting your Eyes, Areej, you sensed his urgent Need,
modesty prevailed, The promise
postponed, Blessed are the pure. The soldier boy obsessed with
the kill (Have
you become an etched x on the nozzle of his gun?) Perhaps his first? Daughter, heir, of ancient
Abraham, your Hebron Dowry is heavy, pregnant with history and horror. What exchange of fire caught
you? Trapped, you cast a Glance of anger, perhaps a look of contempt (Disdain
does not become you) He fired back a bullet, and you’re Eighteen
forever, Frozen,
your moment of immortality Captured, as you, caught by surprise, Wondered, for an unrepentant
second, is this all? Is
this it? And he, an instant murderer,
let out a breath— This
is it. Unrepentant, forever branded,
His
nameless victim eternally engraved Within what makes him what he is, What he will always be. Although your eyes had never
met, he wears The stench of death, and you—the Scent of
youth. Indivisible. Areej, the fragrance of wild
flowers Wafting through the hills of Hebron, yours Is no
abstract death And mine is no impersonal
sorrow. Your Mother has granted me the right to share Her grief—a
mother too— In
the heart of bereaved Jerusalem. Lamentations. No, no wedding ululations, False courage before cowardly
death, Forging endings way before Time, and your breasts, have ripened. You will not learn, Areej,
the full Fact of your death, Nor he. But we do, and shall. Forgive me for not letting it
pass Unnoticed, hovering in numbers, Headlines,
and withering wreaths. Forgive me for letting it Come to pass, unwittingly, like a sidelined Chorus of
fate in the face of tragic choice. (It was not mine to make, nor
yours, But years ago, someone signed a pact that sealed your Fate, and
made the choice for both). Have you found your peace,
Areej? One chance after the last
chance Found you unprepared, unadorned, Your
guilt—an unforgivable innocence Immersed in hope, freedom
within your grasp. Is yours the ultimate
iniquity of natural Life before unnatural death?
Of daring? Humming a tune to yourself while hanging Laundry on
the roof to dry? The sharp Pain of a
loose clothespin drawing a drop of blood? The
gaze cast over rooftops, a daydream Of college or the boy next door? Too early, too late, daughter
of Palestine, Time cast you into misplaced peace Into a realm
of almost Dreams
And the sin of unfinished
Chores As magnificently mundane As the flag that enfolded
you. As
ritualistic as a mother’s incantation, A prayer for the innocents:
Lead us not into Heroism for
the pain of a child, The
death of a child, is anguish beyond Comprehension. It is done. It is undone. It
is not done. http://www.miftah.org |