--I am Let Go--




“Goodbye, my mom…”
I kiss her hands and leave,
the house of my parents,
in my village, chained…
chained with high walls,
electric siege,
armed soldiers,
and hate.

While walking, with a bag full of food in my right hand,
and my green Palestinian ID in my left,
I am remembering my goodbye to my mom.
I didn’t say, “See you soon, mom!”
but goodbye.
I don’t know why!

The street is dark,
with the moon lurking behind the clouds.
It’s cold in November.
My cold hands shaking.
Neither the bag nor the ID helps warming them up.

I approach the high wall and the border we always talk about,
in our winter meetings around campfires.
It’s full of military watchtowers,
with welded wire fence,
and snipers pointing their guns at me.

My ID is ready in my hand to show,
and my bag is open for them to be searched.
The inspection is over, and I am let go.
They laugh at me while I walk.

No safety yet.
About to cross the border,
I again remember my goodbye to my mom.

Remembering stops.
My back feels cold.
It’s frozen.
It’s warm.
It hurts.
I am screaming.
I am shot by the soldiers checked my bag and my ID,
by the soldiers who let me go.

Mohammed Arafat
November 2nd, 2019

Green leaves wilt,
and turn yellow and orange,
filling the ground of my parents’ backyard,
with brown color.
No swinging, no tree climbings, no frolicking,
but warmth in sobs with my family.
We bring up our old memories,
the sweet and the bitter,
the memories of every autumn,
I lived in my old town in Gaza.

With love, we flip them like reading a dusty book,
in front of the campfire.
while yellow and orange leaves still fall outside,
filling the ground with brown color.

It’s windy outside and cold.
Reptiles get into their burrows.
Birds, in a hurry, fly to their nests,
full of either babies or eggs about to hatch,
and we are still remembering our old memories.
We fall asleep in front of fire in autumn,
dreaming...

Mohammed S Arafat
October 30th, 2019

They say, ‘life is simple and fair’,
‘it’s based on equity and justice’,
but people don’t have any care,
going by it’s all about ‘just us’.

We elect humans and call them leaders,
to help us, bless us, and pilot the ship.
After years though, we are the bleeders.
They steal, lie, trade and badly rip.

When, verbally, we oppose them,
like innocent angels, they become,
and we, the opposers, they blame and condemn,
after, from hate, they show us some.

It’s not only about the leaders’ corruption.
It’s also about those killing us without disruption.
It’s about those murdering our girls and boys.
It’s about those shooting to death without noise.

When we come to criticism,
they simply call it anti-racism.
When we come to dispute,
they are set ready to shoot.

Well, they keep saying, ‘life is fair’,
but again I say, ‘it is not, Sir!’.
‘Life is not just,’
‘so we need to adjust!’

Mohammed Arafat
September 19th, 2019

Sitting on my bed,

with a red apple with my hand,

while looking at a map in front of me,

I am eager to eat my fruit,

but that map takes my attention.

The map of Palestine!



I gape at it,

for seconds.

My eyes are watering,

My heart is melting.

My hands are trembling,

My forehead is sweating.



I see Gaza isolated,

Jerusalem separated,

the west bank eliminated,

chaos created,

the case complicated.



I cannot speak up,

or write up,

for reasons we know.

The only way to criticise or to oppose though,

is through my mind.



In my mind,

I curse the occupation,

its oppression,

nd its crimes.

I curse our kaleidoscopic political parties,

their hypocrisy,

and their lies.



Mohammed Arafat

06-09-2019

From a tent to another, I move.
It’s raining,
and sometimes, snowing.
It doesn’t matter how cold it is,
because I am cold.
I have only one blanket,
when I sleep,
one sweaters,
when I move from a tent to another,
under rain,
and sometimes snow.

Wait! I am day-dreaming.
I don’t live in a tent anymore.
I live in a makeshift home.
I have more blankets.
I have more sweaters.
My life is better,
but I still feel cold.

I look out from the dusty window,
that looks like those in jails,
in my room I share with my brother.
It’s sunny outside!
It’s hot!
but why am I cold?

I am still looking outside from the same window.
More makeshift houses appear,
all around,
“Our refugees’ rights?”
written in Arabic, I read on the walls around.
By then, I realized I am still called a refuge.

I saw people marching,
holding banners,
asking for human rights,
holding Palestinian flags,
and wearing the Kofeya.
I realized I am still a refuge.
I see people,
forced to leave their homeland,
to another,
where they live with no rights,
to have jobs,
to build houses.

I see kids,
looking at the protesters,
not knowing what they are looking at,
but I know they realize that,
they are still refugees,
in a neighbouring country,
oppressed and cold.

Mohammed Arafat
03-08-2019

Reminding...

I am in the bus.
It’s crowded, and dark,
while on the highway.
I need to breathe,
to move,
to talk,
but I can’t,
reminding me of my days,
in the past,
in Gaza,
where I was in a dark room,
jammed with my seven siblings,
and my parents, that I missed.
Silent,
listening to shellings,
in that dawn,
on Sunday.
everywhere, outside my family’s home.
In my thoughts, silently, I prayed,
for our safety.

Wave of heating invades the bus,
and there is no air-conditioning.
Passengers’ breaths heat it more,
and more,
reminding me of my summer,
of my beautiful city,
of Gaza.
It was so hot,
with no access to electricity,
only for three hours a day,
or two hours a night,
for a second-hand fan.
I slept my nights in that balcony,
closer to the western window,
to get some fresh air.

The bus is getting so fast.
It’s late, it’s really late.
It’s almost eleven at night.
All of sudden, it’s lightening outside,
and the bus gets slower,
as it’s thundering.
I see raindrops on the bus windows.
Amazed, passengers look all round,
reminding me of Gaza cold nights,
in winter,
when my mom covered me with five blankets,
and I needed more,
in that same dark room,
that had no electricity for the heater.

Mohammed Arafat
21-07-2019

The beautiful skies were grey that night.
So dark it was, but not night though.
Unlike every day, it wasn’t bright.
I got my wrap and hid below.

Far away from my father and mother,
I still don’t remember where they were.
In the other room, there was my brother,
and my sister… I couldn’t find her!

That frightening time, I was four years old,
when unknown army attacked our home.
I thought it was tale my granny has told,
but it was real, and ended with a tomb.

I heard them breaking the door,
with their big shoes full of mud.
I screamed, “Mom, is it the war?”
“Mom, I don’t want to see blood.”

Neither she nor daddy talked.
My small siblings were hushed.
Towards me, a soldier walked.
He grabbed me out and rushed.

I started to scream and to cry.
Looking all round me, I saw nothing but death.
It was my parents, brother and my…
They even killed my sister.. She had no breath.

Outside my old home, I just saw no lane.
Neighbors, trees, pets were gone.
Just mess, I had no words to explain.
The Srebrenica massacre had begun.

I was taken to a far camp,
where men, elders and boys were beaten.
On us, soldiers started to stamp.
I bled, I felt like I was eaten,

Women’s mourns were heard.
Army began to hit them and ****.
Though, they had no word.
From the monsters, they could not escape.

So tired I was, so I passed out.
Never woke up until I was taken,
to some place I never heard about,
It was with almighty God, in heaven!