Copyright © 2005 Jordan White
“Can the earth contain/
the cruelty of a mother making her coffee alone/
On a Diaspora morning?” Mourid Barghouti, Palestinian poet
It’s morning.
“I’m alive,” I tell myself,
As others say, “I am awake.”
My bed is in a strange place, and though outside
This dreary shack the sun is warm,
Inside my heart, it’s cold.
Soon I’ll make my coffee, hot and black,
And wait for my kids. Pssht! They will not come.
They’re gone, you know, they’re far away,
There’s nothing for them here.
I ask you, Allah. Are you here with me
At this camp in a foreign land?
But you don’t answer, it’s just the wind.
It sighs the sigh of an old, tired soul,
A soul who will never return.
Allah, do you agree with me? My tears fall down.
Should I have my home and my country back?
But no reply. Should I be surprised?
It’s as if the thieves have stolen you, too.
No! I tell myself. That can’t be true!
No matter who takes what, there’s always enough of you!
No one can banish you from your place,
You still rule all, both in heaven and earth.
So, answer this question, if you will:
Please, can I return?
I want to see my olive trees,
The old stone house, the stars, the hill.
“It’s always Eid in
That is what they say.
So then, please, Allah, hear me out.
Could you save some Eid for me? Okay?