Dear world,
what kind of resistance
do you want me to do?
Armed, unarmed,
or nothing at all,
just dying silently
so as not to bother you?

What kind of resistance
would you do
if your home was stolen,
if your life was merely dough
in the hands of someone else?
Someone who says his god
promised him your land?

Dear world,
I imagine walking
the streets of Sheikh Jarrah
and find Yacoub (the settler)
standing at the door of my house,
ordering me to knock down
my own house, piece by piece,
or pay for him to do it while I watch.

I imagine the journalists
detained for simply doing their job:
documenting our attempts to resist.
And the protest leaders,
seized in their homes.
Danger surrounds.

It’s not so different from here,
as I walk the streets of Gaza,
cloaked in darkness (no electricity).
I hear drones buzzing in my ears.
I see the rubble of a building,
hear the ghostly echo children crying,
their home gone in a burst of dust.
One war over, another will come.

Dear world, don’t I have a right to resist?
Is occupation ever right?
Would you not do the same,
if you were in my shoes?