Aya,

Your A starts suddenly, is screamed instinctively for pleasure and pain both, surprising us with its power.
As you do.
Did.

Sharp minds make sharp wits. Yours left those around you roaring with laughter.

Left them.
They are left.

The world laughs less now. Your family barely at all.

For you, ya Aya

After the sharpness of your A
...yyyyy; your open smiles, soft-strong hugs, care.
Sincerity and Gentleness.

Older than your years.

Soft exhalation skips back into an A but oh what a different A,
what a happy, laughing, dancing A like the purple M&M on your jumper
Flicking herself up merrily while at the same time forcing herself out,
ensuring she is heard despite her natural shyness.

Like your name, you were more than we knew, Aya. You could have been….

....the many things you could have been and done had that bullet not ripped through your body and you fought. For two weeks, you fought. You were a warrior, Aya. In a war you did not want and did not ask for. Shot by a man who did not know you. For, had he looked into your eyes he would have seen his foolishness thrown down his weapon and bowed at your feet.

I knew you not, Aya. But I will hold you.

Aya. Shot by a sniper in Homs. Fought her injuries for two weeks. Died 19th March 2015 from her wounds.

Rooted in the Soul

Roses Die Standing

(In memory of all who died on the Day of Rage, January 28th 2011).

Death.

To bring us one step closer to freedom

Death

For one step across that bridge

Death

For one step

Step.

Step...

Step.......

Steps

Up, forwards, towards, headlong

Our souls rushed

Hearts roared 

as in our hundreds of thousands we surged forwards

in the wake of your sacrifice.

Love.

Does not come any purer

than you. 

Fighting for my life beside yours

for my children as yours.

And I didn’t know and it didn’t matter

if you were Christian or Muslim,

ikhwan, or sitta abril.

We were family

Calling for our murderous brothers to join us

Shouting ‘salmea’ as they shot us

Hands in the air as they shot us

As they continue to shoot us;

for, our roses still die standing

but from their branches, new buds.

Seatbelts of freedom

Absurdities rule the roost here in the Holy Land. I guess it’s not surprising.

Hopping onto a public-run minibus in a Palestinian area does not come with an automatic clicking of seatbelts. We ride freely. 

Israeli roads cut through Palestinian land, connecting Israeli settlements with each other and the Israeli mainland. They have their own laws: Israeli laws. One must wear a seatbelt. Large fines and excuses for harassment lie in wait. Palestinian run areas - signified with large red ‘warning’ signs - have no such law. As the junction to the Israeli-run road approaches, we reach for our belts. *clickclickclickclick*.

Suddenly, I feel restricted. Unable to breathe. I know logically, reasonably, actually, belts are good. They make us safer. But here, between the ancient, terraced hills; amongst the grape vines and olive trees, it is yet another reminder of the foreign power forcing its will upon us. We pass tall, austere concrete watchtowers surrounded by large cement blocks and barbed wire, CCTV cameras pointing in all directions. Large Israeli flags wave at us victoriously. On the hill tops, Israeli settler apartment blocks cluster defensively together as if they know their annexation will be assailed. White immobile trailers continue the trajectory of the colony down the hill. Staking their claim to more privately-owned Palestinian land. They crowd in on us. Stifling. Constricting. Enraging.

The power dynamic is clear. We have none. So we search for freedom in little things. In ways you may think non-sensical. But in this land of the absurd, non-sense seems the only sensible way to go. 

As we finally come off the Israeli road, past the big red signs. *clickclickclickclick*. We free ourselves.