Gaza By; Danisha

Gaza

I stay in a gray room on a bed with gray blanket
And wait for the muezzin to stand up
The chants enter my window and I think of all
those men and women bowing in prayer, fear escaping a new sadness entering
their spirit as their children line up in the streets
like prison in a death camp.
I walk towards the broken window
my head slightly slanted and try to catch a glimpse

of the city of spirits those killed

who pass through the narrow opening of their tombs.
My hands and the side of my right face

against the cold wall, I hide like a slut, ashamed.
I pull the collar of my light blue robe so hard

it tears, one side hanging as everyone’s lives hang here.

Every house is a prison,

every room a dog cage. Debke is no longer part of life,
only funerals are. Gaza is pregnant

with people and no one helps with the labor.

There are no streets, no hospitals, no schools,

no airport, no air to breathe.

And here I am in a room behind a window,

helpless, useless.

In America, I would be watching television

listening to CNN saying the Israelis demand,

terrorism must stop. 

By; DANISHA AZZAHRA PUTRI ARJAMAL