I Will Never Go To Palestine.


I will never go to Palestine. 

I will go back.


A father who was forced to flee at seven, with stories of blood stained hills.  

A mother who gave birth in the diaspora, just as she was born in it.

Exiled since conception.

No, it’s not strange how I remember home.

Transferred memories planted into my soul, through my father love for gardening.

Through that map of Palestine every Palestinian home hangs on a wall.

Through the sound of newscasts in the background of my childhood. 

In every minute I spent with my grandparents.

In the olive oil and olives my aunt sends from Jenin. 

In the lines that make up Handala’s hair. In the words of Kanafani.

The poetry of Darwish, Marcel’s oud, and Fairouz’s voice.

I’ve known home. 

A refugee’s refuge is the valley of memories guiding return.

Eternally returning.

To the home I’ve never been. To the home I never left. To the home I’ve always known. 


  1. toto che handala says:

    Jaffa; a clockwork orange

    I have a key to a home that has no door nor walls
    but i can still smell jaffa oranges sweet in the breeze down the hill
    over there stands a park where a village once stood
    so my grandmother told me one day, almost everyday

    Have you ever been to the sea
    i’ve never been there but my grandfather has
    it was warm and salty he says with moist eyes
    but for me the wet of the sea is not allowed

    Not too long ago we walked this land from water to water
    over the hills and down into the farms tending rows and rows of orchards
    some of the olive trees were thousands of years old
    before armored bulldozers came broke and razed them into piles of kindling

    Al Quds is a dream for all of us to see
    without roadblocks checkpoints and permits
    without smug smartass soldiers barking and pushing
    that day seems so far away

    What is ours we cannot build upon
    for illegal immigrants with an army tear it down
    yet they build what they want where they want
    with all the water filling their pools as our crops wither and die

    I walked with children in the southern Hebron hills
    on public dirt roads not bothering no one
    but then it rides roaring down from inside a fortress colony
    guns waving, curses launched from inside of beeping revving cars

    In the courts to be tried by foreigners in your land is surreal
    in a military court judged by bigotry what chance do you have
    someone somewhere somehow saw you throw a rock at a tank
    you must pay for scratching the paint

    Inside the stinking squalid cell in between your beatings
    the words of your grandparents echo in your heart
    you can almost smell the oranges on the limbs of Jaffa
    you can almost taste the salt of the sea….you endure as a freedom rider

  2. Oh love it !!!!!!

  3. Reblogged this on Unfettered Freedom For All! and commented:
    Mash’Allah; beautiful…

  4. Huong Pham says:

    Thanks for the post.

  5. Reblogged this on My Blog.

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