Every week we march up to the same hill after Friday prayers to show were here, to show we exist and will fight till the death, until the trumpets blare.
My kuffiyeh wrapped loosely around my neck ready to be redesigned as a face mask once they bring the heat. As they stand over there in heavy army uniforms, baking in the scorching sun, scared to let down their weapons & look me in the eyes.
Every week this happens, they will do anything to disperse us, anything to break us. My pocket is full of stones ready for my sling, my aim now so precise I can aim for whatever limb I wish. My hands stained white from the sacred dust which we fight over.
WE make love to this land, caress and hold it in our hearts as our first love. We console its grievance and shiver from its screams of agony.
These henchman only hurt it with their heavy boots of occupation, stomping on our necks, fire arming us, bombarding us. They say this land is Holy but is their occupation wholly to become closer to God? I’m ready.
The tear gas is being shot as the children and women shriek with panic. The boys step up to defend our people, we hurl them back.
We will die today, were already DEAD. Every act of resistance is a resurrection.
The yearning for freedom pushes us to fight this battle every week.
They have M16s and we have our hearts still beating the holy anthem of Palestine. They have tanks and we have our ancient homes, a manifestation of our history. They have their roadblocks and we have our sweet heritage.
Every week we will march.
emotivetruth 