Once upon a time, the holy land would sing sweet melodies under the soothing heat of
the sky’s golden disk – signaling the start of this near-sacred season
They ask you about the harvest –
Al-Hasaad –
A word this people would cherish, taking it out of its carefully kept container once a
year –
Brushing off the dust and ushering in the fruits of their labors
There once was a time this earth swelled gently,
rolling hills breathed peacefully –
the lungs of the land filled and refilled with fresh air flowing freely
There once was a time the trees swayed in welcome of the ones who raised them,
And the rivers laughed, water bubbling its way betwixt the banks,
And the pebbles bounced and rolled, playing between the footsteps of children…
You blink – and it’s gone
Once the vivid reality of generations,
Now a fading memory, masquerading as a dream, begging not to be forgotten – begging
you not to wake up
We are the fruit of our land,
Malnourished, far-flung, but hers all the same
We are the fruit of our land – but the olives have been falling too far from the tree for
almost a century
Not so long ago we would till the earth for months and harvest in joy what the branches
bore for us in reward –
Until the unwelcome announced their arrival –
Invisible arms of a dying empire, armed to the teeth,
Trying to sweep our land out from under our feet
They mistook our beings for rotting fruit:
They harvested our bodies through their cross-hairs, and threw us into the sea
disgustedly
Desecrating the essence of this vital season – committing a humanitarian felony
Then they glanced around the hollow, soulless landscape,
Flicked our ashes off the barren branches,
Tramped into our living rooms with their bloody boots –
And called it home
Today, on this land, too many orchards are shriveled and empty,
Ghost towns remain, mourning the times of peace and plenty
Winds wail through the glassless windows of emptied homes, puzzling over the absence
of their owners
Chaotically overgrown weeds
Critically neglected trees
Little do they know, their caretakers may be trapped behind checkpoints just a few
miles away,
Or sent somewhere, stateless, far across the sweeping seas
In place of the dispossessed nation, stand sanctionless grim reapers dressed in military
green
Staking out in the scorching sun on the brittle ground they haunt
Waiting –
In the continuation of their decades long hunt
To collect yet another indigenous soul who’s homesick strandedness leads his
sleep-walking steps back to the soil of his ancestors –
How could he forget ? –
When his very bloodstream maps out his route of return –
How –
Sundus Aladra is a California-born everywhere-raised writer of Palestinian origin. Writing has been one of her most steadfast companions in the face of life’s unpredictable ups and downs, and she thinks we all could use a little more of it in our world. Sundus holds a bachelor’s degree in Political Science and International Relations and in her free time can be found trying to juggle her wide expanse of creative hobbies.
