2023 has turned out to be a year to remember for all the wrong reasons. It has exposed the heartlessness at the centre of settler colonialism and empire. The inhumanity of the world’s leaders, the logic of capitalism and the global push to fascism are all so clearly spelled out for us. And the mainstream media has embedded itself in genocidal practice with no shame or apology. Those brave citizen journalists who document life under apartheid and bombardment break our hearts with each social media post. Millions have taken to the streets in protests against zionist expansionism and logic but so far our cries have gone unheeded. That is a bitter lesson that will resonate on earth. 

Below I share some poetry and art from Palestinians and allies, hoping that we can look forward to making 2024 a year of global solidarity, justice, and humanity.

Ceasefire Now.

Semantics, Jessica Abughattas

When the census came, / they called us Caucasian. / When we went to school, / they called us Arabs. / When we met the Arabs, / they called us Catholics. / When Athenos brand started making hummus, / they called us Greek / and when we made spanakopita on Christmas, / we called it sabanegh. / When we made Moroccan couscous, / we called it Israeli / And when the towers fell, we were Americans. / And when the towers fell, we were afraid. / When we were asked at the airport, / we were Lebanese. / And when the people who asked us were Lebanese, / we feigned the accent all the way to our respective gates. / When the war began, we were Syrians. / I have been Syrian for three years, since I heard a girl of three / washed up on a tepid Turkish shore like a cold cup of coffee, / reciting the Lord’s prayer in her Levantine tongue. / When churches burned and the Copts bled, / we were Egyptian for decades. / When my cousin was born with maple-colored curls, / we called her blonde / and when we wanted boyfriends and girlfriends, / our parents called us Americans / and when they passed the history test and swore on the Bible, / we called our parents Americans. / When the forefathers founded a new homeland, / they called the people who lived there Indians / They fashioned some stars, and they called it America / After the massacres, they called them Native Americans / After our massacres, no one called us Native Israelis. / When we elected a Black man president, we called it progress. / We don’t hate anybody, / my mother always said, / What we hate is being called terrorists as we tend the nativity / What we hate is being erased from Google maps / What we hate is by any other name, still called genocide. / Aren’t we all Palestinian? / In the way we are all lonely and nationless when we are dead / reduced to bodies, to be swallowed up by the earth? / In America, indigenous people were confined to reservations until 1924 / In America they still call it the Department of Indian affairs / In America they’ve called it Gaza, the West Bank, the Palestinian territories / On Google maps they don’t call it anything at all / When my grandmother is asked where she is from, / she answers in broken English / Betlehem, where Jesus born! / I stand to correct her. / She is from Palestine, where your Jesus was born, / where your Jesus walked, where our children are / blown up with phosphorus. / She is from Palestine, land of Mahmoud Darwish, Turkish coffee, / and the freshest falafel you will ever taste. / Say it for the middle school teacher who made a point / of mispronouncing my last name: Palestine. / Say it for the U.S. census that calls us white: Palestine. / Say it for the stuttering newscaster: Palestine. / Say it for the bumbling history professor: Palestine. / Say it for the Biblically challenged: Palestine. / Say it for the little child born in a manger: Palestine. / Say it for the people in the back row: Palestine. / Say it for the people in the front row: Palestine. / Say it and say it again and again, the letters / becoming softer in your mouth. / falasteen, ya bladi / When my grandmother is tired, it sounds like a swallow / fluttering outward from her throat.

Looking for Palestine, Mosab Abu Toha

The sun rises and moves around.
It sets to visit other places.
And we, we are looking for Palestine.

The birds wake up and look for food.
They chirp on the blossoming trees, laden with fruit,
with peaches, apples, apricots, and oranges.
And we, we are looking for Palestine.

The sea waves lap against the shore.
It glitters and dances with the fishers’ boats.
And we, we are looking for Palestine.

People travel to relatives and friends.
They book round-trip tickets, stuff their suitcases
with gifts and books and clothes.
And we, we are still looking for Palestine.

Untitled, Mosab Abu Toha

stones of house after explosion get Alzheimer’s
some forget they were in a wall in a bedroom or a kitchen or a bathroom
some in a ceiling
some forget they sat behind photo frames for years
a few stones [forget] they were stones
those hit by the bomb

Mosab Abu Toha