we are not numbers

emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights

Ayoung man with trimmed beard looking forward.

Family reunion

Omar turned his head up to the sky / his heart aching / for his murdered brother’s family.
Young woman in white hijab.
Ayoung man with trimmed beard looking forward.
Omar Al-Balawi. Photo provided by by Dina Suhail El-Ejil

Beneath the dim moonlight of Gaza
in the balcony of his home
Omar sat
amidst the dust of death
which roared around him
blurring the sight in all of Jabaliya’s
neighborhoods.

Omar turned his head up to the sky
his heart aching
for his murdered brother’s family,

whispering, Would we meet, my brother?
Would I hug your Selia again?
Would I hear the new-born alphabet
of your cheeky little toddler
with her gleaming sage-green eyes
cheering, “Amoo Omar!”

Alas!
They disunited us forever!
And now, they try
to force us from
our homes! from
our land
from our soul.

They order us to flee
to the south, to another hell:
where death dwells within
the shattered souls of young children;
where we are mere imaginary
piles of rubble
in their thoughtless heads.

Yet!
We will stay steadfast here
and, we will never leave
our home, we will never
leave our home.
We will never leave our home.

Swinging on his father’s chair, Omar tried to touch
the scent of mint and basil
which still perfumed the balcony
Omar told his little plants,
No, I will never leave but to the sky,
to Heaven:
where the scent of mint
is never hashed with blood
nor gunpowder;
where we can be—

But sudden
screams! split the night

Heaven is now welcoming a new moon.

Israel shot dead Omar.

Two adult men, brothers, sitting on a couch.
Omar with his brother, Mohammad Al-Balawi, who was killed two months before Omar’s departure. Photo provided by Dina Suhail El-Ejil
A toddler girl in a white party dress.
Selia, who was killed alongside her father. Photo provided by Dina Suhail El-Ejil

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