If I Were a Child in Gaza

a poem

Photo by Carl Tronders on Unsplash

Listen to the author reading If I Were a Child in Gaza.

If I were a child in Gaza,
(if I am not already dead and wrapped
in a white blood-stained shroud
with my name written in black marker),
I would have only one arm or one leg
or no legs and no crutches,
no wheelchair, no prosthesis, 
so that my father (if I still have a father)
would have to carry me in his arms
or on his bent back like a donkey.
I would have no medicine to relieve my pain
or stop my stumps, my wounds, my burns
from bleeding, weeping and festering
and my poor mother (if I still have a mother)
would try to comfort me with her kisses,
her tears and her prayers.

If I were a child in Gaza,
I would cry for bread my mother or father
cannot give me and my brothers and sisters
(if I still have brothers and sisters).
I would sip unclean water and every salty trickle
would burn my throat and come out,
thin and putrid, into my pants or diaper.
I could not take a bath or a shower
or wash in warm, soapy water.
I would be dirty, cold and scared,
homeless.

If I were a child in Gaza,
I would have no toys to play with
and no school to attend with my friends,
(if I still have friends).
And I would always be seeking, 
not a playground or a beach in the sun, 
but a safe place (if there are still safe places)
where I would crouch and hide 
from the bombs, the bullets, the soldiers. 
I would tremble and cry and cling
to someone in my family
(if I still have a family to protect me),
and I would want the blasts, the explosions,
the screams, the noise, the terror to stop,
now and forever.

If I were a child in Gaza,
I would be afraid to go to sleep
(if I have a bed, a mat, a plastic bag
to lie on and a blanket to cover me)
and I would be afraid to wake up.
Sleep would come only when my eyes
(if I still have eyes), were too heavy,
too sore, too blurry to stay open.
But I would not know the difference
between each fierce, dark night and 
every endless day.

If I were a child in Gaza,
I would look up at the sky 
and wish that I could fly like a bird
high above the clouds and far, far away
where nothing could harm or catch me.
And when one day this hell on earth is over,
I will fly back to my people
and the place where I was born,
and there we will rebuild, 
insh’allah, and stay.