if i do not live to see freedom
that spans Jordan to the Mediterranean Sea
my final prayer is this
i hope you remember,
the first drag of that thick pipe lodged between your yellowed teeth
the acrid smoke and sting that clung to lungs, graying from within
laughs you shared with the eternal sun
as you smiled too wide, saccharine
and signed that, “nothing shall be done which may prejudice1”
i hope you remember,
the first home that housed you
the pale pink of my walls
that you said reminded you of your daughter’s favourite dress
she must have outgrown it by now
and is off to see the world
on the trip that our girls had planned together
while we drank qahwa and dusted philo pastry from our collars
i thought that this would have taught you
that peace is reached at tables
not minefields
but if it had
my daughter would be on that trip with yours
i hope you remember,
the first boy you shot
his bright, wide eyes
and the baskets of pomegranates he was holding
how they tumbled from his grasp
and met soft sands that caressed them
and the fruit he had been saving
the way he had gripped a handful of arils
that ran red rivulets down his blistered palm
converging with the evidence of your destruction
like two parts of the Red Sea
the boy that belonged more to the land
than you ever could
i hope you remember,
the first Quran you burned in Jerusalem
rough pages and fresh ink that spoke of David
and how you stood there
gun still warm
before lines of peasants with fisted pebbles
knowing that you were the Goliath
God had shun.
i hope you remember,
the first lie you told yourself
and how you made it truth to the world
that the land you pillaged was but pomegranate trees
and empty streets
abandoned homes
and Britain’s freed
that they refused peace
and that you
had wanted it
i hope you remember,
my Falasteen
the one i had shown you
of sweetbreads and hummus
white robed poets and kohl eyed mystics
of stars, crescents, and crosses
that shared the same city sky
and i hope you remember,
that i had asked to be buried
beneath our olive tree
below the branch that still read our names
and before
you forget me
يا ندمي2
ammarah siddiqui
1 – excerpt from the Balfour Declaration
2 – translates to “my deepest regret” in Arabic