Brothers: A dirge
(a poem of lament for Gaza and for us all)
1.
There’s a cliff
Where every parent stands
On the verge—without regard
For which child took the first swing
Even though
It matters to the brothers.
In dreams or legends
Storybooks or songlines
On the playground or around the table—
Can a battle be birthed
In love?
(The guardrail at the edge is gone.)
2.
Brothers widen their stance
Fling fists
And fold words into daggers
Wincing as bullets pierce intention
Seared onto tags
Around their neck.
Ears ring with the sound
Of generational desire.
No cease to the fire today;
Tomorrow already burns.
He started it
Shared blood is no thicker than
The waters we were baptized in.
(Might the Jordan River stay?)
3.
Enough
Mothers groan, fathers weep
When bombs disguised as retribution
Drop on children;
Collateral damage
From the fall out
Now falling off the bookkeeper’s ledger,
Calling out a stray to soften the blow
Of grief compounded
Over moments and centuries
A womb or a grave—what can be born here?
(The moneychangers won’t reconcile grievance.)
4.
Earth begs for seed to be split open
The only kind of dying
That leads
To something made beautiful in its time.
Here, home
Shadows cultivate blame
Instead of soil
And the fruit speaks
Even before it’s crushed
For wine.
(Under the fig tree—we’re still afraid.)
5.
Mother turns
Her eyes
From the clamoring
Father tunes
Out the bickering, the bellowing
They are tired;
Grandfather slows his drag,
Closes his eyes—
There is old war in the crease of his skin.
Never mind.
The past will not make amends;
A friend
Turns over in her sleep.
(Where can a head be laid?)
6.
Brother loaded with angst
He started it
Brother corroded by pain
He started it
Brother washing his hands
He started it
Brother making a speech
He started it
But who is listening?
No-one cares, or dares;
The crescent moon disappears. And—
Who cast the first stone?
She did
Because she was
Afraid.
(When cannons are lit at dawn.)
7.
When brothers won’t
Make peace
Will a mother breathe?
Will they hear her plea?
Will a father step in?
Exactly what
Does a peace keeper keep
When they’re loaded in armor
Formed within the womb?
Complicit, complacent, compliant
Defiant
Who will end it?
They are weary
He started it
(And who can choose where they were born?)
8.
Remind me—
What did they call the children?
Collateral damage does not exist
The identifier is an idol
Commodifying the flesh
Of the dying, but
Damage stands on his own two feet
No qualifier
No justifier
Just:
Damage.
(They trade with the currency of allegiance.)
9.
What can be repaired?
Holy imagination dies through degradation
And hope
Is buried
With the corpses
Of mothers, of grandmothers
When violence passes through the bodies
Of their babies
And comes out as
Excuses worse than missiles,
Wire transfers from allies
Worse than enemy drones.
But he started it
(Will the body keep the score?)
10.
The end is somewhere in the middle
So light a candle with Mother Mary
Make art from the rubble
Plant flowers in the window box.
Rush and you’ll forget the
Unleavened bread—
A mosaic of memory woven
In the quick of winter sun
On your shoulders
Where growing old
Is a luxury
Not promised
To brothers and their sons
Or their sisters
Or their daughters.
He started it
(There are no plowshares built of sword.)
11.
Grandfather’s watch no longer keeps time
Grandmother’s kettle no longer boils
Who will end it?
Pass the cup, pass the peace
To you
And also to you
And you
But not him.
Saying, “Peace, peace” when there is no peace.
Oh brothers, reaching for home. . .
He starts
(Here in his hand—a song.)
12.
The guardrail at the edge is gone;
Might the Jordan River stay?
The moneychangers won’t reconcile grievance;
Under the fig tree—we’re still afraid.
Where can a head be laid
When cannons are lit at dawn?
And who can choose where they were born?
They trade with the currency of allegiance.
Will the body keep the score?
There are no plowshares built of sword;
Here in his hand—a song.
13.
A dirge.
And the yoke re-made of iron.
When brothers build altars
Of kinship, citizenship
In the dust while strikes crescendo
And faith dies or springs within the rift.
Gathered to our people—
A surge.
He starts again.
But who will sing the end?
A post script:
There are many layers to the war in Gaza and although I’ve tried to read and better understand the long and complicated history of the conflict, I’m left wanting. What I do know is that countless lives have been needlessly lost and the genocide can never be justified.
‘Lost’ makes us think of things displaced and while there are so many displaced, it’s too soft a word to use for lives taken, killed. There is no such thing as ‘collateral damage’ when it involves human life. It’s too simple to divide us into ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’; we all carry within us great capacity for both goodness and evil. Unchecked pain and anger and fear and entitlement wrecks havoc on those caught in cycles of violence and injustice where hatred can’t help but grow. When groomed over generations, fear and hatred outpace our ability to see our common humanity, thus shaping and empowering the ‘bad guy’ within who does truly awful, unspeakable things. But even they were children once.
The currencies we trade in—driven by greed and power and the misuse of sacred texts and modern ideologies—are diabolical, underscored by our justification of the exploitation of vulnerable peoples and communities to preserve our positions of power. This is happening on our watch as we become numb to it.
Political and religious leaders have much to answer for. I don’t envy their position (and there are no simple fixes) but they have a duty to relentlessly seek the common good, not just of their own but for us all. You and I share this duty to seek the common good, too.
This 13 verse poem is the closest I can come to knowing how to express my heartache over all that’s been lost. It’s a lament, a song for family. It’s all I’ve got in my bewilderment for what we’re living through—what we see through our siloed news outlets and what we see played out our living rooms floors.
—Adriel, Mother of Brothers
Photo credits:
The hills above Jericho on the West Bank by David McLenachan.
Make hummus not walls by levarTravel.