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we teach live, Sir - Rafeef Ziadah

Today, my body was a TV’d massacre.

Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits.

Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits filled enough with statistics to counter measured response.

And I perfected my English and I learned my UN resolutions.

But still, he asked me, Ms. Ziadah, don’t you think that everything would be resolved if you would just stop teaching so much hatred to your children?

Pause.

I look inside of me for strength to be patient but patience is not at the tip of my tongue as the bombs drop over Gaza.

Patience has just escaped me.

Pause. Smile.

We teach life, Sir.

Rafeef, remember to smile.

Pause.

We teach life, Sir.

We Palestinians teach life after they have occupied the last sky.

We teach life after they have built their settlements and apartheid walls, after the last skies.

We teach life, Sir.

But today, my body was a TV’d massacre made to fit into sound-bites and word limits.

And just give us a story, a human story.

You see, this is not political.

We just want to tell people about you and your people so give us a human story.

Don’t mention that word “apartheid” and “occupation”.

This is not political.

You have to help me as a journalist to help you tell your story which is not a political story.

Today, my body was a TV’d massacre.

How about you give us a story of a woman in Gaza who needs medication?

How about you?

Do you have enough bone-broken limbs to cover the sun?

Hand me over your dead and give me the list of their names in one thousand two hundred word limits.

Today, my body was a TV’d massacre that had to fit into sound-bites and word limits and move those that are desensitized to terrorist blood.

But they felt sorry.

They felt sorry for the cattle over Gaza.

So, I give them UN resolutions and statistics and we condemn and we deplore and we reject.

And these are not two equal sides: occupier and occupied.

And a hundred dead, two hundred dead, and a thousand dead.

And between that, war crime and massacre, I vent out words and smile “not exotic”, “not terrorist”.

And I recount, I recount a hundred dead, a thousand dead.

Is anyone out there?

Will anyone listen?

I wish I could wail over their bodies.

I wish I could just run barefoot in every refugee camp and hold every child, cover their ears so they wouldn’t have to hear the sound of bombing for the rest of their life the way I do.

Today, my body was a TV’d massacre

And let me just tell you, there’s nothing your UN resolutions have ever done about this.

And no sound-bite, no sound-bite I come up with, no matter how good my English gets, no sound-bite, no sound-bite, no sound-bite, no sound-bite will bring them back to life.

No sound-bite will fix this.

We teach life, Sir.

We teach life, Sir.

We Palestinians wake up every morning to teach the rest of the world life, Sir.

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I'm a weary wanderer, a soul burdened by the weight of the world's allure. Like a candle flickering in the wind, I yearn for release, To escape the fatigue that smothers my inner peace.

I'm a puzzle missing pieces, scattered and worn. Trying to find meaning in a world that feels torn. Like a broken record, playing the same tired song, I search for harmony, where weariness doesn't belong.

I'm tired of walking this worn-out road. A weary traveler, carrying a heavy load. Living this life feels like an uphill climb, But I'll find the strength to rise, one step at a time.

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Life may feel confined, When dreams lie dormant, and aspirations unwind. For the heart that yearns to soar and be free, The weight of limitations can be hard to foresee.

Oh, life, you wear the shackles that bind, When desires remain silenced, left behind. A burden it becomes, when paths are blocked, And freedom's sweet song seems forever locked.

But fear not, for within lies a flame, A spark of defiance that burns just the same. In the depths of your spirit, a fire aglow, Yearning to break free, to flourish and grow.

Embrace the whispers of the wind's gentle plea, As it carries the dreams of those who dare to be free. For life is a canvas, awaiting your touch, To paint your desires, to overcome as such.

Let not the burden of "can't" hold you down, Unleash your spirit, let your passions abound. The road may be arduous, with obstacles untold, But with unwavering determination, you shall unfold.

Find solace in the knowledge that you hold the key, To unlock the doors that withhold your decree. Life's burden transforms when freedom's in sight, When you stand tall, embracing your own light.

So cast away the shackles that hold you tight, Embrace the strength within, unleash your might. For life's true beauty lies in chasing your bliss, A tapestry of freedom, where dreams find their kiss.

In the symphony of existence, let your soul be heard, As you dance to the rhythm of your own chosen word. Life is a burden if you can't do what you want, But with freedom, dear friend, your spirit shall haunt.

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The Bittersweet Burden: A Tale of Beauty and Pain

In a world obsessed with beauty, it may seem paradoxical to hear someone express their discontent with being beautiful. After all, beauty is often celebrated, admired, and coveted by many. However, for some individuals, the façade of beauty hides a world of pain and hardship. In this personal reflection, I delve into the complexities of why I hate being beautiful and how it has brought me more pain than joy.

Being beautiful often invites superficial judgment and objectification. People tend to focus solely on appearances, neglecting the person beneath the surface. This constant scrutiny can be suffocating, leaving one feeling like an object on display rather than a human being deserving of respect and understanding.

Society places unrealistic expectations on the beautiful, expecting them to live up to an idealized image. These expectations can be overwhelming and lead to self-doubt and a constant fear of not meeting societal standards. The pressure to maintain a flawless appearance can be exhausting, both mentally and physically, as it requires constant effort and sacrifice.

Paradoxically, beauty often breeds jealousy and envy in others, leading to animosity and negative experiences. People may perceive beauty as a threat, leading to alienation and isolation. Genuine connections become rare as people's intentions are constantly questioned, causing emotional pain and a sense of loneliness.

Beauty has a peculiar way of attracting attention, but it doesn't guarantee meaningful relationships. Often, people are drawn to the surface-level allure rather than the depth of character within. This superficiality can result in hollow connections, leaving one feeling empty and unfulfilled. The desire for genuine connection becomes a distant dream when beauty becomes a barrier.

Then, the internal struggles that accompany beauty are often overlooked. Constantly being praised for one's appearance can lead to self-esteem issues as true validation becomes intertwined with external validation. Insecurities and self-doubt can creep in, eroding one's confidence and sense of self-worth.

While beauty may be revered by society, the personal experience of being beautiful can be far from glamorous. It often brings pain, loneliness, and a constant battle with societal expectations. The superficiality that surrounds beauty creates a void that cannot be filled with compliments or superficial relationships. It is essential to recognize the complexities of beauty and foster a culture that values inner beauty, compassion, and genuine connections above all else. Only then can we alleviate the pain that beauty can bring and embrace the diverse beauty that exists within each individual.

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The Birds

I released the birds, the ones that I had huddled between the saved words, the ones that were hidden in the basements of other houses that were not mine, the ones that were caged in some other garden waiting for someone to see them. Today I released the birds, the ones that were wounded and haven't flown for a long time, the ones that were locked up more than a hundred years ago.

I freed the wings that should have taken flight and with them the others were freed, from all the nests, from all the voices that I felt nearby. My soul became light as a feather, and those who came before me to this beautiful land, raised it with the wind of their smiles, it was almost magic.

Talking about what is important, declaring joy as an indestructible flag, feeling the embrace of those who know how to share it, having the courage to leave nothing for later, because later is sometimes the same as late.

I did it on time, I released the birds and the words, and found in the others a garden of welcome, of unconditional love, returning to what is essential. Those we love also have their battles saved, who knows how long they have weighed on their hearts.

Understanding that despite the path we are also those children we were, and that we seek to go out and play again smiling and looking into each other's eyes, is also understanding that in others there is fragility and innocence that needs to be told, that breaking the silence heal bodies and souls. Talk about everything you need, share your dreams, don't save anything for later, because sometimes it can get late.

I released the birds, and they all stayed to live in my garden, but they are free to share the sky and there is nothing more incredible than the miracle of seeing them.

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A Love Poem

Luckily I didn't die every time I wanted to die, that I didn't jump off the bridge or fill my wrists with blood, or throw myself on the road, far away.

Luckily I did not tie the rope to the ceiling beam, nor did I buy a dose of eternal sleep at the pharmacy, with a false prescription.

Luckily I was afraid: of knives, of heights, but above all of not dying completely and staying there –even more lost than before looking without seeing–.

Good thing the ceiling was always too high and I was ridiculously small for death. If I had died one of those times, I would not now hear your voice calling me as I write this poem, which may not seem like, but it is, a love poem.

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Wounds

That day a part of me died, it went with you, you can recover from anything, but sometimes what you lost takes something from you, something that you simply cannot recover, you are not the same person again, things do not come back to be the same, you learn to deal with it, life goes on, but then one night you lie in bed, and you ask life, why did you make me believe that it would be different?

Why did you take me out of my reality to get me into a bubble of happiness if in the end when I was at the top you were going to break it?

Launching me back into this reality destroying me more, not like a hero, you took me to war and made me come back alive , but as someone whose wounds will never heal, because every damn night he will wake up and know that he lost everything, and he will claim: "damn life, give me back what you took from me" and you will only smile seeing me being eaten away by my pain, the wounds hurt, and they will still be there, I lost the war and came home, with a mutilated heart, that will never be the same again.

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Everything or Nothing

I hug memories that never happened, I tie myself to the rope that cuts my neck, my decisions on the list of things that must never be made. You left me waiting between Everything and Nothing, you sang songs to me from afar, but you didn't get close, there is something cowardly in the brave act of never being.

I fantasized about throwing myself off the highest hill, I knew you wouldn't miss me. I fantasized about flying like birds fly, as if my wings might one day grow.

And the highest hill told me come closer, and in the absence of your hands I approached, the only one that whispered to me was laziness, melancholy appeared some time later, but in silence.... and the sweet wind invited me to fly with him.

I fantasized about the sky splitting in two, with my little cry and that you are my God. I who have adored you every year at harvest time and also when the sun does not rise. Where do I sign to be adored by you?

I fantasized about being the Devil, masked with a false image of God, breaking your heart like worthless glass. With the remains of your non-existent heart lying next to the remains of my own heart.

Is that you left me waiting between Everything and Nothing, dreaming of the infinity of your eyes, but swimming in the current and mediocre land, which belongs to no one. I want your Eternity and you left me looking at the clock, waiting for you to arrive. Between Everything and Nothing becoming Nothing before you. You who created me in the cruelest act, I feed you with my desperation.

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A Woman

A woman is beautiful being a woman because she is art and art always burns because it never goes out. A woman should not be a perfect body or stroke, she should not be an elegant tongue or a brilliant mind, she should not be a divine painting or exquisite taste, she should not be a trophy or a requirement, a woman should be a woman. .

Because being a woman is a miracle and miracles relieve the world, and the world rejoices at its passing through the earth, and it is a poem that walks among us but we let it pass as if it were wind. A woman…

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Shadow

But do you know what, my muse of shadows? For me, they are beautiful and sad, like you. They are sad, for what they mean, for knowing that you still have so much anger against yourself that you must find a way to channel it, beyond your poems. But they are beautiful, because on that occasion, for the first time, I realized how I felt about you.

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A Muse

A muse is sought to dedicate poems, to avoid the sadness and cold of this August. A muse is sought to warm the skin and the soul, and thus forget that we are ephemeral. A muse is sought to inspire rainy days, redeem the sunny days, reconcile the past with dreams, and put nightmares aside. A muse is sought to create days worth repeating, to contemplate beaches and parks, embrace each other in public defying fear, and look at the sky with the certainty that even God smiles if he sees us together. 

A muse is sought to scare loneliness, to overcome together the distance of silence, the borders of pride, the abysses of absence. A muse is sought to end the unspoken words, to be brave again, baring the soul. A muse is sought to demonstrate that neither the clouds remain so high, nor is freedom impossible, a muse is sought to give a home to the orphaned poems that still inhabit my soul, eager to go out and conquer the same smile several times. A muse is sought to stop thinking in halves, to fill this cold bed, to share three sheets, two pillows, and a thousand lives. 

A muse is sought to make memories, make love a story that doesn't end, turn rooms into dance halls, and give concerts in the shower. Looking for a muse to make it my favorite city, visit each of its dream landscapes like someone who visits cafes and libraries. Looking for a muse willing to become eternal, knowing that your name will not be forgotten, knowing that you will live in more than one book. Looking for a muse that hurts sometimes but not so much, that I love always and so beautiful, that even its flaws inspire poems, that even on its bad days it is radiant. A muse is sought to believe in promises again, to recover faith in second chances. A muse is sought because poetry also deserves to be rescued from time to time by a heroine, who stars in the dedications and is the essence of the words, the vital impulse of art, the reason for being of a poet, of this poet who still believes in dreams

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Time

People walk with lost eyes, perhaps in a tortuous past or in an anxious future.

Tied up in the time of uncertainty, the present is lost, where the steps are walked, where the air is breathed.

Tied to time, our wings lose feathers. Feet tired of repeating the same paths, over and over again.

We are puppets of time, entangled in its trap, lost in its endless circle.

But we will witness tranquility when the feet rise from the ground, the wings fly and time ceases to exist.

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A flame begins to burn in me. I can feel how it expands, burning everything, burning what was there, freeing me.

A scream is born from my chest, little by little it gains strength, takes over my voice and controls my mouth. Try to let go of what I kept silent for so long, the words spurt out from between my lips, lips that now smile.

A woman seems sleepy and tries to open her eyes, she begins to get up and I think I recognize her, her face is vague, but I know that it is her, that it is me, that we are, that we are the same. She was sedated, hidden, inert in the darkness inside me, she let others take control of her steps, allowed other voices to speak with her mouth and other logs to fuel her fire until one day she simply became alien.

Now she is fed up, disgusted, her scream turns into a roar, furious she breaks everything around her, but she doesn't blame anyone, she knows, that she was the one who made all the decisions that banished her, the ones that sent her into exile. Then I understand, she is the one who burns, the one who screams, the one who frees me. And I see it clearly, that woman is me, the same one who left, the one who slept, the one who hid, but she's back and this time it will be her face and no one else's the only one that will show itself to the sun.

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To you, woman, to you, "who have danced life with two hearts and breathed with four lungs"; that you have changed black to paint colorful landscapes; that you have said enough to injustice and you have become a protagonist; that you are air, breeze, hurricane and storm...

You're a woman

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Return to love, not as a renunciation of individual freedom, not as bondage and affective dependence on another person.

Return to love understood as the maximum expression of goodness. How the true state of healing and gratitude with the universe.

Return to love to understand the little things that make us happy and how insignificant the great deeds driven by selfishness are.

Return to love as a revolutionary tool by predilection. The only one capable of stopping the war.

Return to love from the fraternal, humble and supportive.

Return to love because love is home and shelter.

Return to love, to internal love with oneself, to understand that being born and reborn are always an act of love. Life is to be lived with love.

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How difficult is life, right love? So many open wounds, few opportunities for healing, I know that I am not the one who will save your life, even if it hurts in the depths of my heart, but I can make you smile from time to time, so that the day tastes better for you. We drag things that are not ours, but that's how we are both, to try to save others we forget that you and I also matter, but I know that every night I find you, in a little corner of the world just for the two of us, a space where your soul and mine can be free to surrender and release the pressure. Things still hurt us, and fear is not easy to take away from reason, but here we are together, trying to take all this love to an unknown and quiet place, where the horizon is silent, and all that moves are the feelings of our heart. But the only person who feels it is me, not you.

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Neither Benedetti, nor Cortázar, nor Neruda Are capable of writing your graceful portrait

Create short verses of affection, without a doubt

Look for words that rhyme in the story

The nights are long and the days lose their brightness without your gaze

Those who wake up from eternal sleep Those who see you in your sweet abode

A light in the midst of nebulous darkness

Time stops in your breath

And again I feel that strange sensation That inspires me to write in colored ink And encourages me to believe in love again