we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
Who are the strangers holding me? This is not my mother’s smell, nor my father’s.
Photo circulated on social media
From under the rubble, I cried
When all at once was gone
I saw people crowded side by side
I wish I could run
I decide
To cry so hard, to wail.
Under the rubble:
Could a five-month-old baby utter a word?
A sound of chaos was the only thing I heard
Pain!
Sigh!
Pain!
Sigh!
Unbearable –sigh – pain!
A blast of light was finally plain
Camera flashes?
Who are the strangers holding me?
This is not my mother’s smell; nor my father’s
Why are they all taking photos?
Only strangers all around
I needed nobody but my Mum
Photo circulated on social media
I cried one further time
And finally my father’s been found
More hopeful I’ve become
Finally back home, but with a difference.
Despite the loss, my father and I don’t surrender.
Given this chance was not a coincidence
Life is worth living and I am here, the sender
Of a message of glorious significance
That this world still has hope despite the incident
And I will be an ever-lasting defender.
