The following poem was cowritten by a Jewish Israeli author and a Palestinian author as part of the Writers Matter program led by Professor Bob Vogel. The juxtaposition of two stories (fictional names based on the tragic reality of the ongoing war and surrounding conflict) illustrate how there are two human sides to the conflict, both suffering and both struggling to see one another’s pain.
Two Sides, One Humanity
It’s Sunday morning. I wake up, drool on my pillow, sheet marks scattered across my body, face still puffy. I turn on the TV to watch my favorite cartoon when unintentionally I see the news. I only linger for a moment.
On the news, they say it was them. How can I love them? They are the devil. How can I love them?
My friend Mohammad lost his parents in 2014; they were killed by a bomb. Before that, he used to be the life of the party, his smile shining bright, laughter filling my ears anytime I was around him. He loved to play soccer and play “bananir” and “8omida.” He had a dream; he wanted to be a therapist, to help heal souls, broken souls.
He doesn’t smile anymore, only the pity smile he gives to the people who say, “Sorry for your loss.” He doesn’t care about souls anymore; he doesn’t believe everyone has them. I threw a ball at him and said, “Come on, let’s play.” He kicked it back like it was never a part of him and said to give it to a kid who would enjoy it. I think I saw a tear fall, but I didn’t say anything because kids were orphaned all the time. Looking back now, I would have hugged him and told him everything would be okay. But that was a lie, and we both knew it even then… Ten years later, Mohammad was killed during the war. Then I knew it would never be okay.
My friend Yoav lost his brother during the second intifada. He was always a quiet kind kid and never let anyone fall behind. He loved to read books and go to the beach. He said he was at peace there. Yoav wanted to write books and travel the world.
Yoav is still quiet, but the kind of quiet that you notice, the kind that comes from people who have lost the will to say anything. He doesn’t read books because his brother would be the one to bring them to him. I don’t remember the last time I saw him holding a book. Yoav doesn’t come to the beach anymore. I wonder if he even has a place for peace. He doesn’t travel. I think he felt guilty to travel when his brother was six feet under. Looking back, I would have hugged him and told him everything would be okay. But that was a lie, and we both knew it even then… Twenty years later, Yoav was killed at the nova party. Then I knew it would never be okay.
Sometimes I wonder how you expect us not to hate the very people who took everything away from us.
Mohammad, even when he didn’t get to be a therapist, he was my therapist. He never liked seeing me sad, so why leave? He taught me so much and even showed me how to love myself. He used to help his mom and everyone around him. When he was killed, I didn’t just lose my friend or my therapist; I lost a part of me. A big part of me is with him in heaven. Maybe he can be that part’s therapist.
Yoav was everything to me. He was a brother. He wrote me little stories and held me up when life got tough. So why leave? Yoav was a pure-hearted boy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. And now he’s up in the sky. My dear Yoav, are you looking down on me, guiding and protecting us?
Mohammad?
Yoav?
Just feel, take a deep breath, and let go.
Stretch your hand and lay your head on my chest over my heart.
Can you feel my heartbeat?
I can’t feel yours.
Why can’t I feel yours?
Can you hear me? Are you listening?
Are you there? Maybe if you don’t have a rhythm, you can follow mine, the rhythm of love.
Love? I think I mean the rhythm of fear.
Eyes, beautiful eyes left open even when life went.
Ears, clogged. Leave the ignorant bliss and educate yourself.
Stop hearing and start listening to me.
I will own up to my part in our story.
But stop hiding.
You are not innocent; a victim maybe, but you played a hand in your own downfall.
Tongues, swear to god.
They spread empty promises and lie
until those little white lies turn the tongue into black dust.
You promised a future, but Palestinians in Gaza fail to pass the age of 18.
A nation of children who never grow up.
You promised a place where I could be me. Israeli Jews massacred in their own country.
A nation that has been slaughtered since the beginning of time.
Our senses make us senseless.
Paralyzed in fear like a child abandoned
angry like the breeze slapping the trees.
Two sides, always two sides, yet only one ever seen or one you choose to see.
