Nakba
My mother is three years younger than Nakba.
But she doesn’t believe in great powers.
Twice a day she brings God down from his throne
then reconciles with him
through the mediation of the best
recorded Quranic recitations.
And she can’t bear meek women.
She never once mentioned Nakba.
Had Nakba been her neighbor,
my mom would’ve shamelessly chided her:
“I’m sick of the clothes on my back.”
And had Nakba been her older sister,
she would’ve courted her with a dish
of khubaizeh, but if her sister whined
too much, my mom would tell her: “Enough.
You’re boring holes in my brain. Maybe
we shouldn’t visit for a while?”
And had Nakba been an old friend,
my mom would tolerate her idiocy
until she died, then imprison her in a young picture
up on the wall of the departed,
a kind of cleansing ritual before she’d sit to watch
dubbed Turkish soap operas.
And had Nakba been an elderly Jewish woman
that my mom had to care for on Sabbath,
my mom would teasingly tell her
in cute Hebrew: “You hussy,
you still got a feel for it, don’t you?”
And had Nakba been younger than my mom,
she’d spit in her face and say:
“Rein in your kids, get’em inside, you drifter.”
— Sheikha Hlewa, Haifa
Poems from Palestine
Translated by Fady Joudah
Read more at:
thebaffler.com/logical-revolts/poems-from-palestine
Learn about the Nakba: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nakba
Is this grief?
I don’t know…
Rage and sadness swirling,
Destroying this wall I built,
My focus,
The security I fought for.
Accusations telling me how I feel,
That I’m wrong.
When, how, what?
The blame falls on me,
Crushing me back into that lonely,
pleasing little girl,
I had to break free.
Love or hate,
I’m not sure which is more.
I want to fight,
To be heard,
Understood,
Accepted.
My reality does not exist in your world.
You only see your hurt,
Denying my truth.
This divide came at the expense of growth,
Could I ever be enough for you?
The person I was no longer exists.
I must protect myself,
Nobody else willing
To extend themselves,
To touch vulnerability,
Accountability.
Is this grief for me…
Or for you?
— Jaime Knight
