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When I declined an invitation
for lunch because
I had to mow the grass,
my friends laughed.

“Are you a mali, then?
Or a cattle rearer, perhaps?”

Mowing the grass,
trimming the trees,
weeding the flower bed,
keeping the body in shape,
filling the mind
with lovely thoughts.

Mowing the grass,
grooming the earth.

Oh, the beauty of mowing the grass!

Little did I know
when caged cities are flattened,
when homes and hospitals,
when schools and churches and camps
teeming with women and children
are bombed out of existence,
and the bodies of thousands
upon thousands
are blown to pieces
for the crime of a few
(if fighting for freedom is a crime),
in the language of genociders,
it is merely
mowing the grass.

Oh, the horror of mowing the grass!

What devilish hand or heart
has twisted such lovely words
so devilishly out of shape?

Some zealots are sending me a message:
“Let us pray for our Zionist brothers.”

With deep anguish, I think
of our people’s Three Commandments,
especially two:

Live in the knowledge of man and God.
Earn your virtue.

I wonder if praying for Zionists
is living in the knowledge of man and God
or earning my virtue.

I will certainly not pray for genocide;
I will certainly not pray for ethnic cleansing;
I will certainly not pray for the evil from hell
unleashed upon the earth.

A great remorse washes over me;
a great abhorrence overwhelms me
that these – my people –
should idolise devilishness for godliness.

A western reporter,
condescending as ever,
asks Doniya,
“How are you, dear?”

I’m fine, the Gazan girl says.
Although I may not live
after this interview,
indeed, a drone may come
any moment now,
even as I talk to you on Zoom,
but I’m fine.

We have no...

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