How Much for One Palestinian Life?
by Lauren Ajebon
I remember a time as children when Father
Asked us both to value a human life.
You fetched a set of prayer beads,
Laid poppy lips to olive wood devoutly.
Father, with hands as large as life, scooped you up.
Tucked you along the river of his sternum.
I scrambled to gather from my pockets the few coins
I plucked from a mill worker who had keeled over
On the side of the street. I placed the silver
Pieces in the center of his gargantuan palm.
Horrified, Father said I would learn from you or
Leave, and learn nothing at all.
It was delivered more as a prophecy than an ultimatum.
I left that night.
You and I are made
Of the same recycled stardust.
How could I abandon
A sister from a father I claim
To love?
Living with Mother tarnished the lessons
Father tried to instill.
While your mother taught life–
To give your last meal
So a stray may live another day.
My mother taught careless destruction–
To play hero
With the life-hungry bones
Of those who have yet to wrong me.
It’s made me prone to the cold,
Looking for monsters in victims.
Looking for a monster in you.
Now that Father’s gone, Mother informs me
You’ve been written off as carrion by the vultures of the world.
Says she’s happy to help me settle an old score.
She holds so much contempt in the swell of her gritty laugh.
And nearly all of it is held for you dear sister,
As if the hurt being inflicted on you now
Pales in comparison to an old grudge.
I part a siren’s sea to be nearer.
Nearer and yet the bloated corpses I uncover
Form a new barrier between us.
I can’t seem to stop seeing death now that
I’ve chosen to see you.
What have I done
Or been doing?
You must despise my side of the family,
Is it clear I’m no longer with them?
Though what good is sworn allegiance whispered
Under scorned breath?
You want action!
Not the kind that comes with a song and dance.
Nor the kind of action that has robbed you
Of sweet baby gurgles
And staked a violent claim to your peaceful land.
No, you want the kind of action born ripe and unyielding
From compassion.
I find you kneeling in the burnt husk
Of your cherished olive grove.
I nearly miss you.
Your face didn’t used to look so cozied up to red.
When did your full cheeks morph
Into malnourished habituation?
A handful of eager children form a zigzag line in front of you,
Mirroring your taut bony frame.
You give each one a chunk of overripe watermelon,
Placing your poppy lips on the expanse of their foreheads
Before moving on to the next soul.
All the while your prayer beads hold tight,
Garnishing your worn knuckles.
You teach life.
You greet me as if I was never lost,
Offer me the last of the melon now that the children have gone.
The slim red and green mound looks like a feast in your hand.
I reach instinctively for my pockets.
You laugh, tired but gentle, tuck the piece into my palm.
And what a beautiful name,
What a beautiful name, you have
Written in the rind.
For the first time, I understand what Father asked of us.
You teach life.