I saw hesitation in his eyes
Rock in hand I felt the pain of what underlies
He cocked the gun, click clack, magazine racked
I felt the warmth trickle down his leg, front and back
Finger primed, centre aligned contract signed I know, you don’t own your mind
I envy you, facing death free as a dove, martyred indeed, return to divine
Kaboom, 13 years of life flash, all of it is nothing but tatters
Bullet splatter, skull shatter, brain matter, served on pavements platter
You didn’t have to, you had a choice, but you still don’t understand
You’re right, I don’t get it, you’re dead, but you’re smiling and the rock is still in your hand.
Tribute to Palestinian children who lost their lives
Tribute to Israeli soldiers who don’t own their lives
I don’t know what goes through a child’s mind faced with such circumstances. I don’t know what goes through a soldiers mind trained to deal with those circumstances.
At what point did a child mature and decide he had to take up any means necessary and fight?
At what point does a soldier lose their humanity and step over their conscience conveniently like it was a puddle of water?
Does the child look down the barrel in empathy?
Does the soldier look down the barrel in confusion?
I’ve read so many stories about soldiers regretting their servitude to their country’s defence force. We know the massive psychological damage of PTSD.
So what drives people to still enlist?
What drives children to lift a rock?
Something is very wrong at both ends of the spectrum.
What if we could take that split second above, where all those thoughts ran through both parties heads and expand on it. What if we could open dialogue, over a table full of food, Arab-Israeli delicacies, laughter, anger, passion all in the air, but the food too good to let anything but our bellies be the host that directs civility.
What if I could look at my brother from another mother, and hand feed him a morsel?
What if she could look at my sister from the same mister and wipe the cream from her lip for her with her own handkerchief?
That’s the crux of it there, Muslims and Jews from the same Father Abraham, Ishmael and Isaac with different mothers but the same father.
They say no one can hurt you more than your family, because they know your vulnerabilities all too well.
That’s true, but no one can love you or heal you like family too. Sounds like this is just a domestic dispute to me, albeit an ugly one.