
They call me a Palestinian
but I have never seen Jerusalem.
I have never seen Hebron and Jericho
and the other beloved cities.
Not because I’m in exile,
or my grandparents migrated
from Jaffa and Acre.
Not because my dad is working
somewhere in the world.
But because I’m a Gazan.
I know Jerusalem, our capital,
from pictures.
I see the Dome of the Rock
on the covers of my books.
We are in a tiny box, so
how can we smell her air?
From pictures?
How can we touch her trees?
In photographs?
How can I draw my name in her sand?
Palestine.
How can I tell her the truth,
that we miss her
from this prison that we live in?
We miss
The place
The past
The present
The future
The streets
The trees
The nights
The old markets
Our souls
Our freedom
Our identity
Our Palestine.