Do Not Dare Forget To Be Distracted

There is no time to bury the children of Gaza. There is no time to mourn. There is no time to stop. It is a reflex to record death. It is a reflex to record rotten flesh.

There are 40 beheaded Israeli babies.

‘Who are you recording for?’ A Palestinian woman cries. I remember a time when we used to believe in human rights and the promise of salvation it offered.

Do you condemn Hamas? Do you condemn Hamas? Do you condemn Hamas?

I am weeping as I am writing this. Palestine believed in human rights like I did, only I had the time to unpack lies in a critique of international law class whilst Palestine found out whilst burying yet another child.

Israel has the right to defend itself.

I selfishly try to silence my body’s reaction to limbless children. This is not my story to write and yet here I am. I feel like a thief, constantly. I talk about Palestine like the grief is shared. I have never felt more in my entire life. The pain in my chest has become a lover whose hugs I cannot do without.

Legally killed children.

As the veil was removed from my eyes, I screamed. I apologised. I prayed. I wept. I spoke. I renewed the anger and grief that sit in between my lungs threatening to kill me.

Fall in line and remain distracted or die.

The

          Safe

Zone

       Myth

Is

      Exposed.

But the Super Bowl is on. Let’s rejoice. Don’t forget the score. Remember to watch Israel’s advert and blink away Palestinian death.

Bombing

                   Hospitals

           Is

                Bad

Only when it’s Ukrainian children.

Eight

       Percent

Of

             Gaza

Is

     Gone

But Trump’s ear is bleeding.

I have never seen a people that persevered so much. Palestine is home to love. Palestine is love.

There are beheaded babies. Burning babies. Crying babies. Dead babies.

Remember to forget. Wake up and drug yourself: TikTok, alcohol, sex, it doesn’t matter. Just do not remember. Forget to be haunted by the screams ringing in your ears. When you wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, do not remember the coloniser. Instead, pray for the colonised. When you laugh, think about the last time a Palestinian laughed freely.

There are no more universities in Gaza.

I apologise for writing this. This is not my grief, I am simply borrowing it. My sadness feels fabricated. I am ashamed that I am writing this, I do not wish to make myself the protagonist I just can’t remember the last time my chest didn’t physically hurt when I thought about death. I used to complain about the term people of colour but I see now that we are a people, a people of death.

They killed them in their places of worship.

Dear Palestine, I love you.

Dear Palestine, you have taught me the art of resistance.

Dear Palestine, you have taught what it means to smile in death’s face.

Dear Palestine, your freedom is my freedom. My freedom is your freedom.

Dear Palestine, I am sorry that your people had to bleed, cry, scream, die before I learned the truth.

Dear Palestine, Dear Palestine, Dear Palestine.

To be Palestinian is to be born resisting.

He told them Khalas, Habibi. His family watched him die/ She  was the of his soul/ They never found the baby boy’s head/ She had been trying for a child/ He dreams of lifting the seige/ He dreams of his brother coming back to life/ They said they didn’t bomb the hospital and now they have bombed them all/ The numbers stop mattering to people at some point / We are all undercover emperors/ 40,000 or 186,000 it doesn’t fucking matter/ Stop waiting for the next person to do something and be prepared/ Fight fight fight fight fight fight fight.

Free Palestine.