A tribute to Refaat Alareer

You died,
but not from a long-lasting illness.
You were killed by a long-lasting occupation.
But I live to tell your story,
the tale of how we met.

You taught ‘show, don’t tell’
for We Are Not Numbers.
I remember the sparkle in your eyes
when you spoke about Mornings in Jenin,
Sharon and my Mother-in-Law
and Harry Potter,
the young boy who seeks justice.

You shared a story you wrote,
about the murder of your brother Mohammed,
in which you recounted how you
insisted, as a child, that he be called Hamada.
‘Care about the little detail,’
you told us.
‘Let readers into your world,
as if they are sitting with
your grandmother as you sip a cup of tea
and she tells her tales.’
Your words still resonate
and guide me as I write.
You always humanized,
even your enemies.

In your poem I am you,
you talked to our occupiers:
I strive like you did.
I fight like you did.
I resist like you resisted.

With your poetry,
you show the world our homeland:
the laughter,
the pain of your neighbor
and the child from somewhere in Gaza.
That child will see the kite,
the kite you liked to fly when you where young,
flying up above in free Palestine.

He will think for a moment
that an angel is there, sending love.
He will look closely at the angel
and see your smile.