(Your Voice in a World where Zionism, Steel, and Fire have
turned Justice Mute)
 



 



 



A mother's song



Why did you have to blow yourself up,
O my daughter?

Light of my eyes,
My blessing from Allah!
My heart longs for such simple things:
To sing at your wedding,
Carry your infant in my arms,
And help till the soil
That should have belonged
To you and your husband,
My grandchildren and their children.

Why, o why, could you not live
In peace in our land?
Why could you not choose life
Instead of death?

Why did you blow yourself up,
O my daughter?

Should such beauty as yours
Be reduced to rags of flesh
And smeared on the pavement,
To be cleansed from the street
By a streetcleaner
Like so much filth?

Why did you blow yourself up,
O my daughter?

I watched you grow
As tall and strong
As the olive tree
In the courtyard
Of my grandfather's house.

Alas, that you never saw it:
Long before you were born,
They chopped the tree down,
Filled the courtyard
With the rubble
Of the house
They demolished,
When they destroyed our village,
And took our land.

What they could not extinguish
Was the flame of our memories
And the torch of our dreams.

And we rejoiced
At your engagement,
Singing the old songs,
Celebrating
The nights of henna,
Reddening your palms
And the soles of your feet
With flowers and vines,
And the moon of Palestine.

The day of your wedding:
Hope blossomed in our hearts,
The beauty of all of Palestine,
Embroidered into your gown,
And then...

Your husband
Was brought to you
In a coffin.
Shot in the head
As he tended the field
That once belonged
To our families.

They told us
He was planting a bomb
When in fact
He was planting
An olive tree.

But then,
All Palestinian trees
Are a threat,
Which is why
They declared war
On our trees.
And all Palestinians
Are a threat
To the purity
Of the Zionist dream,
Which is why
They shoot first
And cover up later.

O my people,
Draw near
And celebrate
My daughter's sacrifice!

What else could she do
But blow herself up?

O my daughter,
Let your picture
Be on every wall,
And let the fruit
Of your sacrifice
Be inspiration
For every one of us,
Survivors of the Nakba,
Children of Occupation.

And let your sacrifice
Remain
Terror in the hearts
Of those who robbed us
Of our hopes,
And your future
In this life,
In our land.

O my daughter,
When they took from us
Our homes,
And all that
In this life is dear
To every human heart,
It is they
Who lit the fuse
Of the bombs
Of their own destruction.







By Nabila Harb
Yawm al Ard 2002

Photo:
The mother of freedom fighter Ibrahim Rayan
Dancing with an M-16 rifle
When her martyred son's body is brought home.
Jabalya refugee camp, October 3, 2001.