I was running through some old writings today. Looking for a poem about Tubas. And instead, I came across this one I wrote 18 years ago about Palestine. I never even remember writing it. And I can’t believe I was so conflicted internally about the external conflict in the Middle East even then. And I can’t believe it’s still going on almost two decades later. It pains me to the core that we can’t find a two-state solution. I say “we” because we are invested in this, the world needs this, our sense of global security needs this.

Sure, it’s naive and immature. But it speaks to the emotions that run through the heart of the matter.

I don’t begrudge your admiration,

She is beautiful,

Intelligent, kind and giving,

A devoted mother to her children,

A loyal wife.

You say that she belongs to you

By all God-given rights.

You have, in fact, been courting her for

Thousands of years.

You say she belongs to you,

That she was promised you,

An arranged marriage

Guaranteed by your Fathers,

Before either of you were even born,

Centuries ago.

Yet she is my wife,

We’ve grown together,

Our destinies are intertwined,

She is my earth, my sky, my sun,

My moon.

Her flesh is dark and smooth,

Innocent and fresh,

And orchard which would become,

Upon your entry,

Immodest and unclean, and above all,

Unjust.

Tired, hurt, torn as well,

Bloodied with the guts

Of innumerable bodies,

Both yours and mine.

Try to get to her,

And you will have to battle through

Me and my ten (thousand) brothers,

With the grace of Dagon and his cold might,

We will defend her honor

Until our last breaths.

And if, by some unlucky chance,

Your tanks crush the last of them,

Breasts slashed by bullets and rockets,

At least let me have an ankle or an earlobe,

An inch of Filistina, her desert dust,

To remember her by.

The strength of your desire

For one to call your own

Is equally matched by my my own

Ever since God gave her to me

(And me to her)

On the world’s first Saturday.

So can you not see

That she was just as equally

Promised unto me?

Only I have known her better,

Deeper through the years,

Having shared a home, a hearth

A sacred life and land.

Who does she really belong to?

Why don’t we ask her?

Hush the clamor of fighting men,

And turn our ear to the golden sound

Of Filistina’s gentle cry,

Pitiful but pure, poppies on the breeze.

Surely you can hear

The love and dedication

To her people.