I Hear Stories

My mother smiles at me
as she recalls her people
and tells me of her blood,
then says, “that blood is a part of you”.

I, confused by my blood, say, “what am I?”
She laughs then caresses my head.
“Your blood is resilience,”
she proclaims, proudly.

She tells me of the olives and the Zaatar.
I hear stories of beautiful trees,
with the sound of the call to prayer
in the background to put you at ease.

She tells me of the mosques,
and how they are the pride
of every Muslim alive;
how it makes their hearts strive.

She tells me of the women of Gaza,
the ones we call family,
and excitedly lets me know
of how much she knows.

She tells me of the Dabka,
and laughs as she knows no steps of it,
but can’t help but clap
as she watches it being performed.

She tells me of the snatching
of what could have been,
and how all that culture still flourishes
after gasping for air at the seams.

She tells me of houses,
that have belonged to generations of families,
and how they could be gone
in the blink of an eye.

She tells me of the martyrs,
and the ones left grieving.
She tells me of survivor’s guilt
and the weight of its meaning.

She tells me of the rubble;
how it was another word for trouble.
She tells me of the bombs
that shower their skies.

She tells me of the hymns
the women embrace the martyrs’ mothers with;
how strong they are
to continue to sing.

She tells me of the land,
that has seen too much death,
to let them pronounce it
in any other way other than 'Falasteen.'

“Palestine is in your blood,”
she tells me,
“so I know you’ll grow
with rivers of strength in your veins.”

It is our land.
It is our blood.
It is our courage.
It is our fight.

They tell us to stop,
for it will not change a thing,

but we laugh and continue because we will only stop when freedom is ours, at last.