Younger Than War

I wrote this poem last year, reflecting on my childhood under Israeli military occupation. I’m now staying in Jabalia, a United Nations refugee camp, with my wife and three kids. I’m reading this poem to myself and wondering if my children will be able to write poems about the bombs and explosions they are seeing. I was 8 the first time I witnessed a rocket. Now my youngest child, born in America in May 2021, is living through the third wave of Israeli bombing. Not only are he and his older brother and sister smelling death around them; but they have also lost their house in Beit Lahia 10 days ago. Luckily no one was at home. My son Yazzan, who is 8 years old, asks me, “Are our toys still alive?”

Tanks roll through dust, through eggplant fields.
Beds unmade, lightening in the sky, brother
jumps to the window to watch warplanes
flying through clouds of smoke
after air strikes. Warplanes that look like eagles
searching for a tree branch to perch on,
catch breath, but these metal eagles
are catching souls in a blood/bone soup bowl.
No need for radio.
We are the news.
Ants’ ears hurt with each bullet
fired from wrathful machine guns.
Soldiers advance, burn books, some smoke
rolled sheets of yesterday’s newspaper, just like they did
when they were kids. Our kids
hide in the basement, backs against concrete pillars,
heads between knees, parents silent.
Humid down there, and heat of burning bombs
adds up to the slow death
of survival.
In September 2000, after I had bought bread for dinner,
I saw a helicopter firing a rocket
into a tower as far from me as my frightful cries
when I heard concrete and glass fall from high.
Loaves of bread went stale.
I was still 7 at the time.
I was decades younger than war,
a few years older than bombs.