Ana Dammi Falostini

A city is burning. Sheikh Jarrah, once a beautiful town is now reduced to nothing but blood stains, scattered body parts, and deserted homes. Five are dead. Forty-eight are dead. Five hundred are dead. My stomach lurches as a soldier drags the body of a man who looks just like my uncle through the streets. Thick rope, the kind that gives you a rash is wrapped around his bruised throat. His head separates from his body, blood pouring from flesh ripped apart. Palestinians shriek and scream as men with guns larger than me push through the door and drag them out of the home that’s been theirs for thousands of years. I wonder if my mother will ever go home. A child laughing echoes in my mind. 

أنا دمي فلسطيني 

Parents fall to their knees, their bodies creating deep thumps as the bone clashes with the concrete. Their mouths are open in pure horror and searing despair. Every parent telling their child’s short-lived story, or what it was supposed to be before someone ripped out the ending. I watch as men and women who’ve been handed authority stand up saying, “This can go on no longer. This is the last time; this will never happen again.” We all know it isn’t. We all know it will. The country cries, loud and heavy like a pounding rain. Demanding everyone to shake in fear, adrenaline like a drug as it seeps into our veins, into our blood. 

أنا دمي فلسطيني

Silence. The kind that’s so loud it makes your head ache. I listen closely, waiting for the bomb to drop. Waiting to hear voices of protest, waiting for the country, for anything. Nothing. Nothing but silence. That absorbs all sound, all light, every last bit of hope that I have left in me. I want to scream into the abyss, for them to save us. For the people who are so adamantly stating that all men are created equal to decide that we deserve to survive. We scream at the ones handed power they don’t deserve and haven’t earned, praying to Allah that one day they might just pay us a moment’s notice. We’re here. We’ve always been here. Why can’t you see us? Why can’t you hear us? Because we do not die in classrooms? I feel like a child, wondering what I did wrong to be ignored. Neglected, like a toddler in time out. No one will remember their existence. No one will remember their story. I watch as we become the forgotten. I watch as self-proclaimed activists, corrupt world leaders, and dishonest media turn away. 

أنا دمي فلسطيني