I have been stuck. I stopped writing because somehow it felt cruel to. I mean it felt empty. I mean what would I say.
And it’s not a silence like before. The silence was instead the sound of feet marching on the ground. Of long sighs tucked in between the pages of every book I could find on the “question” of Palestine. Of late nights laughing and karoke-ing, dreaming with our voices the worlds we knew we needed. The silence of arguments and tears as we realized that world-building was no easy task. It was the silence of tents swaying under heavy rainfall. Of the way, a heart beats under the constant watch of the police while simultaneously building a world where police are obsolete.
And then this morning I woke up to screams. I think their screams invaded my dreams.
It was headlines. that read “high casualties after Israel bombs northwest Rafah”; “Bombed safe quarters in Rafah”; “28 dead after bombed makeshift tents.”
It was headlines that twisted themselves around necks and throats and burning flesh.
And then I want to tell them. I am not sure who. I want to tell them. I slept in a tent for the first time. And all I remember is how cold it felt. How the rain forgot what water resistant meant.
I want to tell them. The headlines can’t tell the truth unless they sound like screaming. and even then the words fail to speak honestly. if they don’t reek of burning flesh. If each word isn’t so thick with smoke, you can’t escape the taste. The taste of melting in the black of night.
And somehow still all these words are wrong. I tell them I am desperate to stay human. And yet their screams. I mean her scream. And his. That I have no business writing about because they aren’t metaphors or poetical symbols. She was someone’s. He was still mad at his father while his body turned molten ash. Testify that no one can remain human while the ground weeps wet with blood. When every poem is an excuse. When even words hide from the truth.
I heard they sent bombs on tents. And I prayed for rain. I spelled the clouds and begged every god I knew to open the floodgates and let them pour.
I said I didn’t mind if the waters washed away me too.
Tell them headless dreamers don’t exist. Tell them tents and camps and political dreams can’t quiet their screams. Tell them I think maybe the only way to remain human is to go insane.
Tell them. Tell them. Tell them. Tell. Tell. Tell. Tell them…
If you are reading this right, you will only end by screaming.
Anything else will be disingenuous.
Scream until your voice chokes on itself. Until your breath catches. until your throat raw tastes like. salt. Or. blood. Don’t explain.
Rafah is burning.
And last night I was dreaming of worlds where we are all free but woke up to the sound of screams.
From the Pink Room 