we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
They say the echoes of bombing have faded / then why does their sound linger / in every voice / in every breath.
They say the echoes of bombing have faded,
then why does their sound linger
in every voice,
in every breath
Why is grey the only color I can see?
In mothers’ pleading hearts,
crying next to rubble,
hoping that their buried children will rise and rest in their arms
In children’s tears,
while they’re staring at the sky
and telling each other
that their fathers have met up there,
in heaven
In the faces of starving people,
standing in endless lines,
holding empty plates,
heavy with nothing but disappointment
Why do I hold onto the memories of every leaving,
believing that they’re my only legacy,
afraid that letting go is a betrayal,
caught between the weight of remembering
and the relief of forgetting
