Artist: Gébraël, Flyers for Falastin

Editor’s note: One of the unique features of We Are Not Numbers is the pairing of each Palestinian writer with an international mentor. They often form close relationships. Basman’s poetry mentor is Kevin Hadduck. Below is a poem Kevin wrote for Basman, and Basman’s response.

Red hearts, bright and full

for Basman Derawi, and for Palestine

It was a garden, merely,
green indeed,
but not an Eden,
a hard-worked, tangled patch,
where watermelons grew
among the hearts.
In late summer,
sweltered by the sun,
the old and young hearts,
bright and full,
hoisted melons onto shoulders,
plunked them down on tables,
and drummed them
one by one.
Opened and shared,
these hearts, by red hearts fed,
rested satisfied,
then made a game.
Wet black seeds,
cupped in hands,
made ready rounds for spitting.
Old and young
spit high, spit wide, spit far
and watched
all silly just to see
where each would fall
and whose had fallen farthest.
And where they fell,
they grew.
Now and then,
and then again,
and then again, as now,
the hearts will lie in battered heaps,
and some lie scattered,
flung by bully boys,
bruised, broken, shattered.
Still, where they have fallen,
they will grow.
The hearts do not forget
the melon patch.
The old do not.
The young will not.
The seeds do not forget the melons,
as where the red hearts fall,
they grow.

Red and sweet

For Kevin Hadduck

In the back of my mind,
the year is different.
I still live in my garden.
I sit on the beach with friends
and cut open a dark green watermelon,
after drumming it to hear its ripeness.
We wipe the red juice from our chins.
We cup our hands
and fill them with black seeds
for a seed-spitting game.
Ouda brags that he can spit
the farthest, but Essa wins.
In my garden,
I walk at Al Shohada Street
with my nephews.
A cart of watermelon is at the corner.
The seller shouts loudly: Red and sweet!
We begin to imitate him and laugh.
I win the bet on which one is sweetest.
Al Shohada: I haven’t thought of
of the meaning of the name before.
Al Shohada: the red water of the flood
reaches my knees.
Al Shohada: the next echo, all the nephews,
the children, the friends turn into seeds.
I shout again: What is the meaning?
I haven’t thought of the meaning before!
But no echoes return.
The watermelon lies crushed,
but I see the seeds.
The red water reaches my neck.
The flood of injustice sinks us all.
We are the Shohdaa; the martyrs,
we are the seeds.
We are the witnesses
and prophets who bear the sins
of our oppressors
along our Via Dolorosa.