Target

On Saturday morning I took the grandchildren to buy art supplies. Evan said, “Gifts you make with your own hands are the best,” and I agreed. 

As I followed them into that temple of consumerism called Target, I was aware that children just like them are targets in Gaza, children the same ages as they are. Blown apart in Gaza, blown apart or in hiding, running; heating water in a heap of rubble (if they have water) for tea (if they have tea). Or they play with some piece of rubbish as if it were a leather ball, remembering (if they can remember) gifts they brought to their parents (alive now or dead), gifts made with their own hands. 

A friend said today, “I think it’s right for us to be overwhelmed.” Who would we be if we were not overwhelmed when this thing is happening and our own government is the only government in the world that refused to call for a ceasefire and instead sent more weapons to kill more people? (Given that the UK abstained, demonstrating neutrality in the face of oppression; given that their weapons dealers are also profiting from this horror.)

Not in my name. Not in my name. Not in my name.

This is an excerpt of a poem by Mohammed El-Kurd in a book of poems dedicated to his grandmother, Rifqa:

made normal: mornings of mourning
on a breakfast table,
olives
za’atar
tomatoes and cucumber
tragedy
tear gas and tea

In Jerusalem, every footstep is a grave.