we are not numbers
emerging writers from Palestine tell their stories and advocate for their human rights
The city reeks of death and tears / You might argue tears are odorless / How wrong would that be.
Fleeing East Khan Younis among the crowds, July 22, 2024. Photo: Saja Sharef Abudagga
The city reeks of death and tears.
You might argue tears are odorless.
How wrong would that be.
If only you could have my senses for a day,
or a moon.
You’d see through walls,
hear long-gone screams,
hold air heavy on your hands.
You’d have scorched brains and tarred lungs,
filled with smoke and smog.
I walk through the city unseen,
not a ghost, not quite a person.
I was thrown
by a human wave
to a cold side alley.
It held me closer to my faith,
but not close enough.
It left me to wonder:
Concrete didn’t take me.
A live bullet failed too.
What am I?
Sense and sanity don’t apply here.
Maybe I haven’t left the cold alley after all.
