In a Village in the West Bank

One little boy writing a book,
“making pictures for it too,” he said over Zoom,
proud face bright as an apple in my screen.
“It’s about a problem,” he smiled shyly
in that occupied land where soldiers sneak around at night
breaking into houses, chopping olive trees, smashing lamps.
“A problem between spiders and ants.” Well, this sounded
refreshing, a problem not made by humans. He said
spiders and ants each want to dominate their corners,
not letting other species have space. I didn’t quite understand,
since spiders spin high-up webs and ants tunnel in the ground,
but he insisted on friction, something about vicinity.
They want the whole space. I could see stone walls behind him.
Hear his parents speaking Arabic in the background,
a spoon clinking a bowl. I felt homesick for my whole life.
Now he was whispering, other kids listening in,
scattered in villages around the West Bank where my grandma
once lived. I knew exactly what their world looked and
smelled like, and wished to be with them
on that ground, stirring smoky coals in a taboon.
“But there’s something the ants can do,” he went on softly.
“So they don’t all get killed. The spiders are stronger
than the ants, you know. So the ants pretend to be spiders!”
What? How does an ant pretend to be a spider?
He showed reluctance to tell, being still immersed
in the making of his story, but gave a clue.
“It’s an expression on the face. An ant makes his face look like a
spider’s face. For safety. Then they won’t attack.
It’s not that hard.”