Bokelskere.no

Was it because there were no more graves in Gaza
that you brought us to the beach to die?

It's the same killing
everywhere.
Seventy-some years later
we haven't lived a day.

A poem is a life, and a life is a poem that calls us inward. What a poem becomes in our innermost spaces is a land that cannot be owned, though it can be cared for, tended to, and loved.

• Aja Monet, foreword.

My father told me: "Anger is a luxury we cannot afford."

In 2009, I saw her rally her body against heavily armed and American-accented settlers and Police in our yard, as they claimed our land as theirs by divine decree. As if God were a real estate agent.