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5 Jan 2012

I met Jesus today

1 comments

I met Jesus today


His name was Palestinian

Issa… Jesus he was called

On the altar of “chosen-ness” he was crucified

Time and time and time again


  *****

His face was Palestinian

Olive, with a hint of agony

Yet


Years of torture fail to conceal the glow

The purity of his soul peeks through

The sparkle in his eyes invites you to dive in


*****

His pain was Palestinian

The colour of his words

Grips your guts


And squeeze… squeeze … squeeze

Until you lose consciousness

You fall on your knees


Begging for forgiveness

*****


His faith was Palestinian



“Their sadism too much to bear

In the street I waited for a car

No way out but to kill myself


Twilight hour the fall of night

The call to prayer woken my heart

Healing balsam caressed my soul


Maybe…. In this life… still…there is something I can do”

*****

His heart was Palestinian


Carved with sorrow

Filled with love

Flames of rage and roars of thunder


Hound his torturer to his grave

*****

His tears were Palestinian


His first crucifixion… he was only fourteen

On the second, he was nineteen

From then on


He was crucified every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year

*****


His dignity was Palestinian

Anguished by his rapists

With his broken back he stood tall 


His wounds run deep… his head held high

He saw the rainbow in the horizon

When all gave up he gave them hope


*****

His smile was Palestinian

It has been said:


“To smile when confronted with most severe oppression

Is an act of Resistance

Rooted


In unparalleled beauty” *

The smile of Issa


Was Palestinian

*****

His resilience was Palestinian


“As he punched me in the face

I felt stronger

As he kicked me in the stomach


I felt stronger

As he slashed my arm

I felt stronger”, he said


*****

His hope was Palestinian

Insha’Allah, ya rab, Alhamdulillah


Bouncy words sprinkled around 

Buds of trust bloom and grow

His broad grin whiffs you to life


His nightmares close their eyes


His tales of horror lie to slumber

When all lost hope he saw a future


I saw Jesus today

Poem by Nahida Izzat

*Qoute by Jonathan Azaziah
Nahida Izzat is a Jerusalem-born Palestinian refugee who has lived in exile for over forty two years, after being forced to leave her homeland at the tender age of seven in 1967, during the six-day war. She has a degree in mathematics, but art is one of her favorite pastimes. She loves hand-made things and so makes dolls, cards, and most of her own clothes. She also writes poetry, participates in written dialogues and believes in building bridges, not walls.

She started writing when her friends insisted she should write about her memories, experiences and feelings as a Palestinian.When she did it all came out sounding—she was told—like poetry! So she self-published two books: I Believe in Miracles and Palestine, The True Story.

Her dream is to return back home to a free and liberated Palestine.

If you like poetry and are intrigued by the notion of helping the Palestinian people and learning more, you can purchase Nahida's books, I Believe in Miracles and Palestine, The True Story by visiting:


ISBN 13: 9780954839109 | ISBN 10: 0954839102


£12.99 paperback Nahida Izzat (2004)


You can write to Nahida : nahidaexiledpalestinian@gmail.com

Courtesey: Nahida Izzat

One Response so far.

  1. Inshah says:

    Salam, Nahida

    I am overwhelmed with the way you voice peculiarities of goodness which are so intrinsic to Muslim culture, and they have been removed and displaced by all sorts of invasion, colonial, intellectual as well as material. I am from Kashmir, and it's situation is much the same. I want to share few lines with you from my friend who writes poetry


    While in a bid to restore their dead to peace,
    when the murderer left for a good night’s sleep,
    ask them about the words they left
    half chocked while in a hurry to the monastery,
    they will be reminded of a grand theft
    that had divested our town of the merry.
    Death is a dirge,
    Sung like an upsurge of the life’s untraded dreams.
    Or, may be, a merry song when our smiles merge,
    within the peripheries of deliberate sobbing screams.
    We were deemed homeless,
    and we were never given to forgetfulness.
    We were Occupied ... Ashfaq Saraf (a Kashmiri poet)from his poem 'occupied'

    I would like to say in the end, that we must heal each other's bruises.

    Freedom for Kashmir, Palestine, Afghanistan and many others (Tribals and poor people of India) too

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