Read Online Letters from Palestine by Pamela Olson - Free Book Online Page A

you cannot tell if they
will grant you
    the visa for that scholarship
    you deserve and need and you don’t know
    if you can remember all the names of
family,
    distant, and you cannot remember how your
father took the news
    of his own parents dying,
    years after the fact, because no one
knew
    where he was or how to tell him,
    the news
    over the telephone your life is lived,
    and emails become your heirlooms of
jewels,
    and pictures are what you make do
    with night after lonely night
    of absence,
    and you wish,
    you wish you held your father’s heart
    when your mother died, but he was not
there,
    and you could not remove that hurt stare
    he has on his face, every moment of
silence
    since, and what do you say to your aging
    father when he cries at the news,
    when he says, he is helpless, we
    are helpless, these children on TV beseech
us,
    on borders left to rot in the
    putrid air of war and warfare and the
powers
    universal that don’t care,
    and what to say, how to wash away the
childhood
    spent witnessing the massacres of bloodied
bodies
    strewn about here and there,
    and your mother tried, she tried all she
could dare
    to give you innocence, the persistence
    of memory is such that the bloodied
    limbs of your ancestry are
    always there and what does it feel like you
say?
    Well,
    you wake up everyday
    and you wished visas and passports didn’t
take precedence
    over the need in your center for
    the family reunion
    and that safe
    loving presence,
    and you spend lifetimes in lands distant
astray,
    and your rights are given to you by
governments alien
    and democracies you cared for not,
    with not an olive tree in the vicinity and
yet you
    are thankful, grateful, jubilant even that
your kids
    are accounted for, asleep in their
bedrooms
    with their crayons and dolls, and
    so you stay, year after year in exile,
    you stay. You grind your teeth at night, and
take your blood pressure medication
    and weep into the phone,
    and weep into the letters that are the only
way.
    And so,
    stranger on a train who thinks I’m sexy,
    who thinks I’m American
    in my Levi’s jeans and blue tie-dye T-shirt
and purple
    lipstick, and my Walkman blasting the
prodigy, for teenagers are the same,
    everywhere, this is where I’m from, and
you,
    you, every single one of you who asks me
about my way,
    you who think
    I’m young and filled
    with mystery and exotic lands
    and an alluring sense of oriental
tragedy,
    this is what it is,
    this is our way,
    and now picture this,
    put yourself in this image and imagine
away,
    to be from where I’m from,
    this is how it is, I
    say,
    do not see your children
    for years
    if you knew where they were
    to begin with,
    do not bear the news for another day,
    do not whisper a word when you need to
scream out what they’ve made
    you and who’ve you become
    and how it is to be questioned at every
turn
    about the political activities of your
uncle
    whom you never met
    who ran a pastry shop
    and the opinions of your aunt
    from the other side of the family whom
    you never met,
    and forget,
    you will forget that a family is a normal
unit
    of harmony and people just get on planes
    and marriages are joyous occasions not
    reasons to panic
    and feel robbed of your rights,
    count not the tears that are shed in
nights
    when you cannot tell
    why one should hold on to their name,
    and know that this is what it’s like to not
have an answer
    to where you are from,
    for you are from everywhere,
    and nowhere,
    and you have a home,
    but it is not there,
    it was never there for you,
    you were never allowed to see,
    you were born a refugee,
    and this is what it is to be
    Palestinian. This is what it is to be
Palestinian.
    This is what it is to be, and be and be,
    and not be.
     

 
     
    Apology Because We Love Life . . .
     
    _PHOTO
     
    Raneen Jeries is a twenty-nine-year-old
Palestinian woman from the village of Kfar Yasif in the northern
Galilee. She currently lives in Haifa where she is pursuing a
master’s in clinical social