Writing for peace

On the day of invasion, a rabbi wrote a poem, taking the side of peace, no matter what side. But peace is a victim. Susie said to write a poem, personifying peace, hope, war, death, then dress it in garments. I think of the tallit and the hijab, the keffiyeh and the kippah. Neruda said death was dressed as an admiral. All I could think of were those tall ghost ships sailing into port, where the dead gather on the docks to welcome home the fallen. Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish wrote about pigeons and peace, clouds and refugee camps, he was a candle in the darkness that is Palestine. I think how we’ve suffered but, there are invisible bars that hold us in check, no matter what our beliefs. My grandmother said a country without a tongue is a country without a soul. I can’t think help but think of Darwish, a poet who spoke four languages who lived in exile all his life. He wrote: you are my country but I am a stranger stripped of identity. He said Hebrew is the language of love. A love divided from itself. Brother against brother. We are alone in our self-imposed exile. The prisoner said to the interrogator: My heart is full of sage, the remains of dawn, as I walk outside of my own being. In 1984, when we invaded Lebanon, I read Darwish‘s poem about the conference of the birds, and wrote a poem called Death in Lebanon. His poem is no longer on the Internet. The birds have flown. Einstein said to prepare simultaneously for war and peace is a non sequitur. A child said it to me more succinctly: any step towards war is a wrong step. What is the color of prayer, of death? What happened to: Love thy enemy. Darwish was once in love with a Jewish woman, but he was an internal refugee in his country of origin. He said: Without hope we are lost. His name means the wanderer, it also means poverty, but he did not suffer from a poverty of words. His words were a rallying cry. He carried his country within him always. In Paris, Beirut, Moscow, Cairo. He said: I am robbed of my ancestors’ vineyards. Now, nohing is left of his homeland except the thirst of mortared rocks that hunger for peace. Despite past atrocities, peace is always a gift. Where does peace begin with me? Peace is dressed in the feathers of doves in Gaza, and Ukraine. These days we are all living in the crosshairs of the unseen sniper.

11/8/23 Write On! with Susie Terence