I asked them, “Where is freedom!?”

They answered lazily, “We sold you some freedom a century ago… Stop being greedy.”

I told them that the old generation of my grandfather has never seen any freedom, but I can see the freedom you sold us… We have a freedom painted on walls only!! 

~~Mohammed Arafat~~

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((Eid Adha Mubarak))

((Eid Adha Mubarak))

-Our beautiful Eid has come,
-Peaceful and happy we will become,

-Eid came to make us sacrifice,
-To do good deeds to win the paradise,

-It came to this world to bring us peace,
-To end wars, conflicts and to bring cease,

-To stop hatred, selfishness and to bring love,
-To be blessed and happy from the God above,

-Eid came to cherish our life,
-And to empty it from the bitter strife,

-Now it`s the time to be united,
-So our lives can be delighted,

-Lets generate love and share,
-Lets have peace and care,

-Life is short, so let’s smile,
-Try to think only for a while,

~~Mohammed Arafat~~

I had a Home

My new poem posted on fosnavoice.org

 

I had a Home

I was living happily with my lovely family,
Life was fine and loving,

I had a small swing,
I used to sleep under the olive tree,
beside our home in Haifa.
My father was a simple villager,
He loved his trees and plants,
His smiles never left his face,
Especially, when my mum prepared his breakfast,
The white cheese from our huge cow,
The thyme from the shrub under the willows,
The olive oil from that Suri olive tree,
The bread from the brown wheat flour,
We were having our breakfast under the shadow of that tree.
The first bite was yummy,
The second one filled my tummy,
The third one… The third one I screamed and said mummy!!
I cried…
then cried…
and cried…

-I was five years old-
I saw her blood… His blood… Some of my blood,
The trees were gone,
the breakfast…
the oil… Our cow…
the thyme…
the willows…
the wheat flour bread…
the small farm became a farm of mines.
I was forced to leave my days,
my moments,
my memories,
my dad.. My… my… my mum… my lovely mum…
I was alone… by myself alone…
I grew alone… by myself… alone,
I wanted to cry and moan,
but I did not want my mum to hear me in her tomb,
I did not want my dad to feel I am still a child,
I did not cry!
I lived in a refugee camp outside Palestine for years,

long years…

the longest years…

the darkest years
I was promised to go back to my land,
to my parents` tombs,
to go back to see the shadow of the willows and the olive tree,
to go back and smell the breakfast we had,
to go back and eat from the thyme,
to go back and breathe the breeze of Haifa,
but…
but… that was a fake promise,
They cheated on me,
They went to the United Nations,
I thought they would get me back to my land,
but it was another plan,
It was a plan against me,
against my land,
against my father’s farm and his trees,
It was against Palestine,
It was the PPP,
It was the Partition Plan for Palestine.
I am still living in this camp,
waiting for fake promises,
I became 75 years old and still waiting,
I am still living with the key of our old home,
and will die holding it,
before I die, I have a will to say,
I want to be buried under that olive tree,

beside my swing in my old farm,

in Haifa,

in Palestine.