Palestinian author and feminist organiser Farah Barqawi writes two poems for Outlook.
Last April we walked for a whole morning in Shejaiya바카라
I was a tourist and you were the key to places바카라
that had fallen out of memory, out of a lifetime.
We walked and took funny photos or rather sad ones바카라
or maybe awkward ones바카라
of a reality that could not hold both of us at a time
바카라바카라but we forced it to 바카라 바카라at least for a whole morning in old town Gaza.
I, with my curly hair; you, with your grey niqab바카라
a world of controversies was rediscovering the바카라
hidden alleys, revealing itself to itself.
You wanted to take me to Hamam al-Sammara바카라
I was naïvely shocked. I guess the
distance has made me ignorant, or maybe rigid. You lifted the
niqab away from your face. I was,
of course, shocked again.
We took a selfie like two school girls 바카라
skipping math class 바카라
attempting some freedom바카라
in discovering their surroundings.
You showed me the old gate of the Omari mosque, 바카라
your favorite mosque. Then you introduced me 바카라
to the Knafeh maker. I became your foreigner friend 바카라
visiting from another world. You wanted to play. 바카라
You laughed at your own little lie. You wanted 바카라to relieve him of the puzzle of seeing us together,바카라
such a mismatch.
In Souq Faras, you assured me I could take photos바카라
of passing folks. It was Ramadan, they were 바카라
shopping for Eid, shouting funny things to their kids.바카라
We were saying funny things too, and you took 바카라
a video of me walking among carts full of fresh mint, 바카라
rocca, and radishes. You made me take a close 바카라
look at the pickles shop. I was your tourist cousin, 바카라
your unborn daughter, your lost friend.
You tried a dress on. It had the color of red wine, 바카라
and you don바카라t drink wine, but Arabic forces you to use바카라
its name this way. I told you
it fit you well. You bought that dress for Eid.
The walk ended shortly by the sea. The heat made 바카라
you tired, but we had to see the port, the only thing바카라
resembling a free exit, despite both of us 바카라
knowing it was never one.
The sea in Gaza throws many desires in us, but바카라
could simply eat us if we try to follow them.
The walk ended too soon, my love. You were fasting바카라
and you got tired. You asked me again if it was바카라
okay to desire a daughter after three boys. I said바카라
yes, but I feared for her and you in my heart.
The trip ended too soon, my Doa바카라a. The taxi driver 바카라
dropped you off before me. Then there was curfew,바카라
then I had to catch a flight, then there was war,바카라
there was your building with an old structure,바카라
there were many Israeli bombs diving down바카라
in the belly of your street.
There was your unworn Eid dress, your unborn바카라
daughter, your ungrown boys, and your untold바카라
stories about Gaza. They were all there with you바카라
as you heard the last noises from what you
thought was afar, until it was close, and you walked바카라
alone this time to the open sea of Gaza. With no바카라
face covers, with no annoying strangers, with no바카라
need for little lies nor an understanding of
controversies.
The walk ended too soon while I wait here for
another touristic excursion with you in the streets
you loved. The streets that carry you in their belly.
Last winter, Zaid had a lot of questions
about snow. He was watching cartoons and dreaming
about the white flakes falling on the other side of the screen,
landing on Sally바카라s hat, coat, and shoes in his favorite show.
His mother said she too had never seen snow
but that I had, so he could ask me, and I would know.
I was in one of those snow lands, and lucky for him, it had snowed 바카라that week. I called and showed them the snow on camera.
I walked around, imagining my body was Zaid바카라s body.
I promised him that one day, when he was older, he would visit.
That he would see and touch the snow and walk on icy
surfaces, but meanwhile, I would carve his name
with my freezing finger on the white froth covering the cars.
My promise became a movie I enacted with a score
and visual effects each time I stepped out into snowy days.
That would be his last winter. I met Zaid in Gaza's last spring.
I looked into his curious eyes, and repeated my promise
before I left. He will visit one day, I promised us both.
But then came May. Its war
visited him before he could grow.
I wonder if Zaid thought of snow when the heat
of a fresh explosion touched his body below the rubbles.
I know where Zaid바카라s body went. I was told he was buried
in one grave with Adam, his younger brother.
What I don바카라t know is where that snowy promise should go.
Farah Barqawi is a Palestinian author, performer, and a feminist organiser. Her poetry and essays have appeared in multiple languages on online platforms and in multiple anthologies, such as 'Ce que la Palestine apporte au monde' (IMA, France, 2023) and 'We Wrote in Symbols' (Saqi Books, UK, 2021). In 2019, She produced and hosted a season of the Arabic podcast Eib (Shame). She wrote and performed her solo piece, 바카라Baba, Come to Me바카라 (2018-2020). She holds an MFA in nonfiction creative writing from New York University (Fall 2023).