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3.2k · Feb 2019
Mohammed Arafat Feb 2019
“Long live Palestine!”
we chanted every morning at primary school.
We were innocent,
Focused against the occupation,
and oppression.
We truly loved our country.
We never forgot the keys
to our original homes from which we were forced.
We all were Palestinians.

Until things changed.

They taught us to love Palestine above all else,
to die for it,
to sacrifice what we had for it,
to oppose the occupation.
And we did
but they didn’t!

Instead they fought each other,
dividing our loyalties,
splitting our identity into factions:
green, red, black and white.
Each party stole a color from our flag,
Turning our unity into a war of hues.

Our resources they plundered.
Our hearts they broke.
Yet on our behalf they say they speak.
They transformed our patriotism
into self-destruction.

We still dream of our occupied cities,
But now there is more for which we long:
Peace, a decent life, dignity.
Before, our oppressors were the thieves;
Now our own people have joined them.
For unity we pray—one flag once again.
Long live Palestine!

Mohammed Arafat
I wrote this poem as a reaction of what's going on among the Palestinian factions in Gaza, trying to urge them to unite for the best of people.
2.1k · Apr 2020
I Still Sing for My Land
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2020
Away from the brown soil where I was born,
away from the red strawberries and the yellow corn,
away from the grave of my grandfather who taught me farming,
and away from my family-jammed home with no backyard or swing,
I sing of my far land,
in which my dreams grew,
with no end.
I sing for the land that gave me patience,
that gave me bravery,
that planted love in me,
which became high green trees,
reaching the skies of other hearts,
I sing for the land where love lives,
with hate trying to replace it.

I still sing of my land,
for which I long night after night
song after song,
curse after curse,
tear after tear,
nightmare after another.

I still sing of my land,
where I lost friends and family,
where good people die, not of hunger,
but of oppression,
where good and bad exist,
where easy gets complex,
where stories are narrated by silence,
voices are heard from the dead,
and decisions are made by the foolish.
I still sing for it,
where infants are born political,
and their worrying about their rights becomes their toys.

I sing of the land, where brains are washed with fear and hate,
where farms are separated with walls,
where people are split by destruction,
where rubble shelter children,
where hearts are divided by revenge.

I will still sing for my land,
for what it gives me,
and for what it takes from me…

Mohammed Arafat
I was talking to someone dear to my heart, and we both shared photos of passports. The name of my country (Palestine) on the Passover  reminded me of how much I love my homeland. My  love to my land no matter how much it gives me and how much it takes from me
2.1k · Jan 2019
In Front of Me
Mohammed Arafat Jan 2019
I start having nightmares before the beginning of any war.
During my sleep, I remember my sisters and brothers,
who played, smiled, loved, and were loved before.
I remembered my mother and the rest of the mothers.

During my sleep, I thought of my school,
the kindergarten and the friends of my niece.
I thought of my swing, my toys and the big pool.
I realized I would miss living free in peace!

The war waged, and I saw what no one has seen.
In front of me, they got ready for the battle.
They brought tanks, guns and an F16.
With hate, they were rushing just like a cattle.

Guns made in East and West pointed at me.
I saw no birds, but warplanes flying over the skies,
bombing, not caring about a he or a she.
I saw blood, felt sorrow and heard cries.

They destroyed my family home,
burnt my books and broke my pen.
They murdered my brother’s spouse,
and threatened to **** me again and again.

Black smokes surrounded me from everywhere.
Big explosions hitting here and there sounded.
Toys broken on the ground, balloons flying in air.
Despair spread, fear planted, hatred rounded.

Despite the war, I raised my hands and prayed,
that I get back to my home where I played,
that peace come and never be delayed,
and that my freedom will never ever fade!

Mohammed Arafat

This poem is the experience of every child found her/himself in a war waged by merciless decision makers all round the world.
Mohammed Arafat May 2021
Tomorrow is the end of Ramadan
and then comes Eid
(Festival of Breaking the Fast)
In Gaza, it’s unusual, though
Tomorrow might bring an ache
to a weeping mom’s heart
crying over her child
Tomorrow, more leaves,
might fall
They fall
like they are falling in love
with Gaza's land.

Mohammed Arafat
Mohammed Arafat Aug 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
When streets in Palestinian refugees camps around Palestine are filled with loud voices in recent days, it's not celebration but protests, bearing the message "Enough, we want dignity".
1.2k · Mar 2019
In A Geography Class
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
I was in a geography class,
in a country, my parents immigrated to years ago,
after a war waged,
in my city I never knew about.

My classmates came from the Far East,
and Africa.
Some came from Europe and America.
They were brown, black and white.
They were Muslims, Christians and Jews.
A few were documented,
while the rest weren’t.

My bald teacher was so good.
He was asked to leave his homeland,
after he opposed the government with his writings.
I thought he was so happy after coming here safely by boat,
but I later assumed he was so sad.
He got everything but not a life in his homeland.

We opened the book on a lesson,
called ‘the crises of the world’.
The teacher asked,
where are the crises?
I raised my hands and pointed at the map on the wall,
they are in the East and the West,
in the North and the South.
The crises are everywhere…

-Mohammed Arafat-
When migrants are forced to leave their homelands, art becomes the best way to tell their untold stories.
1.1k · Jul 2020
Inner Battles
Mohammed Arafat Jul 2020
Dim room.
A small window with a blank curtain
emitting no light.
The ceiling fan is spinning.
No sound is heard.
A French fry container is open
on the floor beside a Washington Post paper
and a big coffee mug, that has no coffee.
An unmoving body has crashed out on a thin mattress.
The smoke from a cigarette between two of his fingers fills the room.
His hand is hesitant to grab the last fry.
It’s probably cold and dry.
It looks delicious
but it won’t taste delicious.
He seems in no mood to eat
after yesterday’s junk food dinner
that he had with his thoughts.
His head is on the pillow that he holds whenever the inner battles begin.
I ask him, “what battles?”
“Of finding a place to call home, of finding a place to call home!” His eyes fill with tears, and he breaks the silence.

Mohammed S Arafat
July 15th, 2020
This poem is dedicated to the refugees of Palestine, Yemen, Syria, Afghanistan and many other war-torn countries, who are still looking for a home.
Mohammed Arafat Aug 2020
I tell my God stories

and pray my thoughts out

during the day

and the silence of the night.

“Why is Gaza suffering?”

I whisper to God.

I am heard

and await a response.

Mohammed Arafat
A crisis after another hits Gaza and its people! Corona Virus hit the strip yesterday and the number of cases is getting higher and higher.
972 · Feb 2019
I Wept
Mohammed Arafat Feb 2019
I looked around me,
by my sleepless eyes.
I saw beauty, history and love.
I saw peace.
I did see peace,
but only inside the worshipping places,
and between the worshipper and God,
and only inside the hearts of righteous.
I then looked around,
and smelled hate and detestation,
all around my home,
in the occupied city of Jerusalem.

A checkpoint,
an unidentified ID,
demolition orders,
a wall, a high one,
which should have to go,
hating settlers,
and soldiers with helmets and M16s,
made it so hard for me to live,
along with my family,
in my city.
Yet, I lived because I love,
the old city of Jerusalem.

Palestinians in my area are gone.
It was only me, and lots of settlers,
around me.
I accepted that,
because I wanted peace,
I wanted love,
I wanted Jerusalem,
But they didn’t accept it.

Secured with shields, heavy weapons,
and chants of settlers,
they evicted my kids and wife,
from my home,
on which they planted their flag,
while media covered the incident all round us.

They then arrested me not knowing why.
I though knew this house was mine.
It was my father’s.
my grandfather’s,
and my great grandfather’s.
It was built before their court was built!

They lived instead of me.
They ate from our food,
sat in our sofas,
watched our T.V,
and slept in our beds.

I wept…
for the first time in my life,
I wept…
like little kids,
I wept…
Like a mother weeping over her lost son.
None made me weep,
but them,
and their hate.

Mohammed Arafat
Israel evicts Palestinians from their home in Jerusalem based on a court order, and here is a poem about what they feel right now.
955 · Jul 2020
I See You
Mohammed Arafat Jul 2020
Lady, I am staring into your eyes,
in front of everyone.
I see your beauty covered with your sorrow.
I see the real you throughout the words they say.
I see the blooming Jasmin behind your bitter cactus.

Whether they like it or not, I will touch you,
I will touch you and touch you with my mind,
until you get out of the cave of your pain,
and smile to me before them all!

Mohammed Arafat
I fell in love with a girl whose name is the name of the most beautiful shrub that has white flowers with a yummy smell. This poem is dedicated to her.
922 · Dec 2018
A Permit to See my Beloved
Mohammed Arafat Dec 2018
The separation wall surrounds me,
It’s everywhere, I even can’t see,
It’s unwanted and very high,
Sometimes I wish I can just fly,
Out of my big jail,
Which made my face so pale,
They separated our land,
Where I really cannot stand,
My family is in the other side,
In the land, which is already occupied,
I want to hug them,
I want to kiss my mother’s hands,
And her feet,
I want to….
I want to see my father,
My nieces and nephews.
It’s a dream, a big dream.

My first love is behind the wall,
Despite it, in love we did fall,
I delayed my wedding for five years,
We longed a lot, and shed tears,
Sometimes I escape the watchtowers,
To hear her voice, and throw some flowers,
Sometimes I try climbing the wall’s stones,
But I fall, breaking my young bones.

We have a very big farm of citrus and fruits,
I missed its trees, the branches and its roots,
My grandfather waits for me since a decade,
To help him watering the plants, which are fade.
I am on one side of the wall, and he is on another,
I have none, and he has my father, mother and brother.

My old friends are stuck as well,
With letters, they tell me their life is hell,
Unsmiling soldiers with helmets are everywhere,
Without permits, I cannot go anywhere,
neither to the old city nor to the capital,
Neither to my family, nor to my beloved.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem talks about the reality of the Palestinians' lives divided by the separation wall in the West Bank and around Jerusalem in Palestine.
Mohammed Arafat May 2019
I am from a place,
where violence takes place,
by outsiders and insiders.
I oppose horror
and every fear chasing me.
I barely can, though.

In my thoughts, however,
I flee the darkness,
the hate and the arrogance.
I run off the imposed siege along with my tears,
with my good and bad memories,
with my stolen childhood,
and my ruined adulthood
with my beating heart full of holes.

Into the farthest city, I want to descend,
like a prophet, an angel or a human.
I just want to descend anyways,
into Jerusalem, the city of peace,
and righteous.

I walk through the lanes of its old town,
among the stalls of its old markets,
built of limestone.

With my wide-open eyes,
I mediate the high woody gates,
closed for hundreds of years,
I stare at its historic walls,
several armies from different epochs,
tied their mares to, across old ages.

I gape at the Holy Sepulcher Church,
the Omar Mosque located opposite it,
and Al-Buraq Wall.
I sense the worshipers all around,
praying and thanking God,
for the peace, he gives them, daily.

I get into the deep alleyways,
full of people with and without Kofeyyas.
I look at the golden Dome of the Rock,
and the Al-Aqsa Mosque,
from outside, insanely.

I take off my plastic slippers at the entrance,
after checking all details around with my five senses.
Getting ready to pray too, I enter the holy mosque.
I raise my hands,
and pray,
for peace and for love,
in Jerusalem,
and around Jerusalem.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem is dedicated to my beloved city of Jerusalem.
676 · Apr 2019
She Awaits the Dawn
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2019
It is a rainy night,
with the dark clouds covering the moon.
The stars fall,
so do the rest of the unknown lights in the sky.
Rings of the distant churches’ bells heard.
Owls, bats, black vultures sound,
so do the hungry wolves around the lightless downtown.

A barefoot little girl,
with unironed clothes for weeks,
beside a bakery, sits.
Her long hair untied and wetted from rain.
She awaits for the dawn,
flipping through her simple wishes like a book,
under the lightening and the thunders.
But it needs hours and hours to arrive.

Families leave the theatre in front of her,
happy and smiling.
They just finished watching a humanitarian film.
Their cars’ lights reflect in her eyes full of tears,
which are not dried yet until the dawn appears.

Stores closed all around her.
Passersby look at her and deny.
Kids looking through the car windows,
ask their parents about her.
They, too, deny so their kids do not have nightmares while asleep.

The girl just awaits the dawn,
having few dreams, hopes and some pain.
She awaits the dawn,
hopefully, her dead parents appear, again!

Mohammed Arafat
Unlike other kids having their parents alive, some are not heard, and they wait for the dawn hoping their dreams come true.
582 · Feb 2020
Born In War
Mohammed Arafat Feb 2020
She is supposed to get to live to enjoy life
Her birth is in war
with no baby clothing available
but a blanket and a pillow

Her mother screams
higher than loud booms around
higher than the voices of politicians
It hurts to give birth during wars

She is in a tent
donated by good people
who don’t believe in war
but in love

Her little world is a war
The skies are dark and grey
and a lot stands in her way
not only this war

She joins her mother’s cries
wrapped with the grey blanket
Cries of rockets heard as well
emigrants from other tents cry too

Fear breaks into her tent
Smoke coming out of the tent
mixed with cries, screams, and wails
The tent shakes
The tent collapses

Her mattress is rubbles
Her blanket is ash
Her cries gone in vain
Just like humanity
Many babies don't expect to come to this life to start it in war, but they do.
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
They ask me about Palestine,
what we have there,
what we live for,
and why it’s so special?

I shake my head,
looking for the words to explain:
We have both the bad and the good.

We have an occupation to oppose,
and to end.
We have checkpoints restricting our movement,
armed soldiers ready to shoot.
Armless citizens
trying to avoid being shot
while protesting the decade-long siege.

We have fighting factions—
brothers, uncles and fathers—
who warn us to keep our mouths shut.
Jails and jailers waiting for us,
if we speak up.
We have users, abusers and losers.
Corruption and patronage.

Hate has invaded us,
but we still have love.

We have an endless, azure sea
that gives us at least an illusion of freedom.
Fields of the world’s brightest red strawberries
and ancient buildings whispering
about a history once noble and proud.
Close-knit families, with faces of children still hopeful and proud.

We have a beautiful capital with a golden dome
that lights with the sun when it appears from the east,
where worshippers gather from everywhere.
Friday’s call for prayers merge into Sunday’s church bells.
In the same capital, we have Muslims, Christians and Jews
who drink the same carob, eat the same hummus,
speak the same Arabic.
White, black and brown tourists come and go,
Smiling and buying from the elders of Jerusalem.
In it, we have mosques, churches and temples,
where those with righteous hearts
kneel to God at dawn and pray
that hate one day will end.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem is written for those wanting to know the reality of the Palestinian case
572 · Nov 2019
Leaves Fall
Mohammed Arafat Nov 2019
It’s dimmed outside.
Birds come back to nets with empty corps,
but with a lot of warmth and compassion.
Their hatchlings and fledglings will sleep hungry tonight.
I can hear their birdsongs though.
Strong wind blows,
across the yard,
and all around the cosy nests.
High deciduous trees rustle,
shuddering me.
Withered dry leaves fall,
reminding me of those humans falling every day,
without saying goodbye to their final autumn,
in my homeland,
in Palestine.

Mohammed Arafat
Nobember 20th, 2019
Sometimes the only thing you can do for your people suffering every day is writing a poem.
Mohammed Arafat Dec 2019
The main street whitened.

It’s snowing outside,

in this moonless evening.

Squirrels look out their burrows.

Owls try to find shelters on top of the high leafless trees.

Across the Street, walks a homeless boy,


trying to cover himself with his arms.

No family, no house, no toy.

Walking barefoot into suburbs,

is his thing.

Nothing left but his memories.

Nothing left but his nightmares.

Nothing left but his fear.

He walks on the wet asphalt,

and the cold mud.

He looks into windows,

finding a different world;

babies cradled,

others put to sleep,

kids fed,

while playing together,

behind the closed doors,

happily, around their parents,

and around the dining set.

The smells,

of winter dishes spread.

Inciting his appetite.

He lost his family,

Because of, either, devastating wars,

or unfair starvation,

either after reaching the shore,

or before asking for immigration.

Mohammed Arafat

No matter the degree of happiness we reach, homeless kids should be remembered.
530 · Sep 2019
Can’t Curse Out Loud
Mohammed Arafat Sep 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

I wrote this poem to reflect on how I feel towards not being able to speak up for the rights of my people
521 · Feb 2019
Walking by the Pacific
Mohammed Arafat Feb 2019
While the sun is setting,
I walk by the dazzling ocean,
talking to myself,
to the storms inside me,
to the volcanos and the quakes,
talking to my anger,
to my sorrow,
and to every feeling left in me.

It is the end of a new day,
a long one but very short,
full of drama and lies,
with no smiles from those around me.

I walk by the ocean,
while shedding tears,
trying to hide them from the passers-by.
I do not want kids to see them,
so they don’t think men cry.
I keep my dark glasses on.

I walk by the ocean,
not believing in promises,
suspecting the beautified words,
from the fake people.
I walk not believing in fake smiles,
fake laughs or even jokes.

The twighlight gleams and is gone now.
unsmiling people around me are gone too.
After diving down several times in front of me,
seagulls swirling above go to feed their babies,
They stop singing their daily songs.
Fishermen with dusty boats go homes sweating with joy.
Rich people turn on the lights of the silent yachts to start their night.
The high waves calm down.
The moon is waning crescent,
with a dimmed light.
They left me alone.
I am alone,
all alone,
but my only friend is my heart,
That they hurt.

Mohammed Arafat
I always thank God for making me smile all the time. However, there are a lot of forgotten people whose hearts became in hallows due to the sorrow they suffer from. They sometimes don't want others to hear them because not everyone will get how they feel and honestly, it's better to be engulfed in the feeling and take out their sadness in a poem.
520 · Mar 2019
Good Ones Do not Die
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
They bid their parents the last farewell last week,
“They died from God,” they were told.
Not believing this,
they said, “good ones don’t die.”
That’s what they learnt in their 4 years of life.

A blond girl and a black-haired boy running,
not knowing where to go.
Their shirts aren’t being ironed for days,
and the pants worn out.
The long unwashed hairs are still flying though,
from the breeze of the windy winter.

They are running,
sometimes smiling,
sometimes crying,
sometimes flying,
like the scared birds above them.
Their screams heard.
They reach the tombs of their parents,
buried in the cemetery near the borders,
which is for the poor only.

Wither colorful roses planted,
by unknown,
on the graves.
No names written on the tombstones,
no death dates,
no verses from the Holy Quran,
no visitors,
and no prayers.

They raise their arms,
and try to pray.
They cannot pray,
because they aren’t taught to.
They just open their cold shattering hands,
look at the cloudy skies,
shed some innocent tears,
and move their shivering lips.

They spend hours there,
because they miss their parents,
which makes a gum-chewing ******,
with a metal helmet,
point his gun at them,
because they are “national threat.”

They run,
and run.
They try to curse the ******,
but they don’t know bad words.
They curse him in their imaginations,
while running.

The girl’s life was the first be taken,
and then her brother.
They vanished,
not the two kids,
but two breezes,
blowing to heaven,
like two angels,
With long wings.
They now know their parents vanished,
by the same ******,
not by God.
because good ones do not die.

Mohammed Arafat
For the kids of Palestine, Syria and Yemen
516 · Mar 2019
We Rise Again
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
Listening to Swan Lake of Tchaikovsky,
I tried to relax.
I was petting my calico cat,
with which I share my room.

Storming the Music,
news from the radio,
about the people of Gaza,
messed with my exhausted mind.
Dark holes swallowed my heart,
which beat so fast.

Rockets hither and thither.
Bombs awakening the sleep.
Kids crying and screaming.
Sleepless nights.
Women weeping.
Hospitals ready to receive injuries and dead.
Houses destroyed and collapsed.
Trees uprooted.
That was what the radio reported.

I did not look at photos or videos,
since I know they are the same.
I did nothing,
but raised my hands,
closed my eyes,
and opened my hearts full of holes.

I talked to myself and it believed what I said;
We fall,
but we rise again.
We fail,
but we succeed again.
We get attacked,
but we ask for peace.
We die,
but we live again and again.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem talks about how I felt while Gaza was under Israeli attacks.
506 · Sep 2019
Life Is Fair?
Mohammed Arafat Sep 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
When I see and feel how unfair life is for those people who have no voice or strength to speak up, I can do nothing about it but to let my pen be my fighter and theirs.
Mohammed Arafat Jun 2019
While Praying, Hymns for Jerusalem

Like the rest of worshippers,
I pray to God,
every morning,
every noon,
and every evening.

On a prayer rug made in Jerusalem,
I kneel in passion,
like nobody else does,
giving up my pride,
crying while talking to God,
while connecting to him,
while doing my best,
so he can accept my prayers,
in this world full of oppression,
and injustice.

I remember the old city,
When looking at the prayer rug.
I can imagine every corner it has,
and every alley.
As if in front of me,
I see prayers worshipping the same God I worship,
but with different hearts,
hardened and softened.

I am still weeping.
None is around me to wipe my tears.
I am all alone,
but with my God,
talking to him,
and crying while bowing down to him,
Not because I am scared of him.
He isn’t scary.
But because I am honoured to talk to him.
He is merciful.

I prostrate,
with seven of my bones touching the ground,
like all Muslims all over the world.
Closing my eyes,
I see the high walls dividing our lands,
our farms,
our people,
and dividing Jerusalem,
into two,
East and West.

I see checkpoints,
a lot of them,
surrounded with armed soldiers,
and a lot of police dogs,
security checking the prayers,
who come to Jerusalem just to pray,
and to complain to my God.

I prostrate again,
this time I see a light,
a strong one.
My tears ceased.
It seems a light of hope,
God sends me.
telling me occupation will be over,
peace and freedom are coming.

Mohammed Arafat
June 27th, 2019
Since Jerusalem is being left alone, I am writing this poem to remember it in my days, nights, dreams, and nightmares.
485 · Mar 2019
I Woke Up In a Tent
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2019
When I was a crawling child,
I was kicked out from my house,
made of mud and straw,
with my family,
during a war my country had.
I can’t remember it.
We had a lot!

I was a child,
but I watched it all.
I saw armed soldiers with heavy helmets,
carrying guns with woody handles.
I saw armored Personnel vehicles,
carrying more soldiers.
and boxes of weapons.
There were artilleries,
stationed miles away,
bombing my neighborhood,

I saw blindfolded and handcuffed men from my town,
standing against a wall.
A young soldier with a hateful smile and deep piercing eyes faced them,
with his pistol.
Their blood splashed on the wall after few seconds.
My father and big brother were there too.

After few days,
I woke up in a tent,
donated by the good people.
Nothing was heard,
but the murmurs of the refugees,
gathered around a truck of bread and soup.

I was alone;
all alone,
at night,
considering the rest of my family lost.

I had none,
but the big white moon above me.
I stayed up talking to it.
and praying to God above it.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem shows us some scenes of what happens during wars all over the world, especially in the Middle East and Palestine.
467 · May 2019
Hearts Iced
Mohammed Arafat May 2019
It is the end of the season,
but it seems very warm outside.
People wear T-shirts and shorts,
while I am under three blankets and more.

My feet and hands iced,
just like the iced hearts and faces of those,
seeing civilian homes demolished,
kids having funerals at an early age,
fetuses dying inside their mothers’ wombs.

Just like the silenced world,
feigning pity and love,
while there is no love,
amid this chaos and strife,
of the broken crying families,
and their unspoken tragedies.

Just like the moonless cold nights,
the people of Gaza can’t sleep at,
and like the empty streets,
having no lights,
having no laughs or smiles,
but the ghosts of the war.

Just like the cold-blooded murderers,
bombing and shelling everywhere,
with no mercy,
with no love,
with no peace,
with their heavy weapons.

Just like those spreading fear and horror,
terrorizing women and kids,
snatching their joy,
and their life.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem is about the people of Gaza who have been under attacks since days.
Mohammed Arafat Feb 2019
Among its green trees I was born.
On their branches my dad hung my swing.
From its fruit, I ate, and from its corn.
Walking in its fields, I used to sing…
I stopped hearing singing birds
but clashes and bullets.

I stopped seeing flying doves
but warplanes and buzzing drones.
Gaza was, then, besieged…
No life.
No light
but strife, and fight.
I got scared, but my dad taught me this;
"Be a man, be a man, and never less!”
I knew Gaza was always like this,

yet it’s the city we will miss.
I love it, and will always do.
Its soil, its sea, its oil will be free.
Rebirthed it will be and new.
Neither for him nor her, it’s we.
Gaza is not what media tells.

It’s not about battles or fight.
It’s not about bombs or shells.
It’s about asking for my right!

Mohammed Arafat
This poem talks about my city, Gaza, of Palestine, where sorrow wars everyday. No matter what happens there, Gaza will always be my first and last place!
442 · May 2019
To my Damsel
Mohammed Arafat May 2019
Every morning I get up not finding you around,
or me around you.
‘Where are you?’ I whisper to myself like talking to you,

A thousand men or more cannot love you more than I do,
as I grow restless, longing for your company.
I bless the rains down in your farms,
the oil squeezed from your ****** olives of the East,
the grapes and the citrus fruits of your Western fields.
I praise the soil under your blossomed orange trees in April,
and the green pasture grass dairy goats raised by.
I sanctify your sand thousands of knights walked on repeatedly,
throughout old and modern ages,
not forgetting the Dead Sea livening my five senses,
and the Dome of the Rock of your Capital.

I wrap myself with the chequered black and white Kofeyyah,
walking everyday being proud,
murmuring and talking to mysefl,
“nothing can drag me away from you, Palestine!”

Mohammed Arafat
A dedication to my country
441 · Jul 2019
Mohammed Arafat Jul 2019

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.
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
412 · Dec 2018
Mohammed Arafat Dec 2018
I came from a beautiful place,
Full of trees of olives and oranges,
A running river and golden beach.
From north to south and east to west.
We had our own land,
a spacious house.
animals for food and milk.
I was a poet,
my sister an engineer,
my brother a doctor.
My parents owned a business,
And my mom was pregnant;
she wanted twins,
a boy and a girl.
I loved my country.
We lived in peace.
Until the hatred spread:
of my family,
my religion,
the way we talked.
We were unwanted.
They knocked down the door of my family’s home
and “disappeared” my father and brother.
My mother aborted the twins for whom she hoped.
I tried to protect my sister from ****,
but I couldn’t.
How cowardly I was!
We decided to leave, to flee.
Like thousands, we walked toward a mirage,
a dream of a better life.
My mother could barely walk,
my sister lost in her personal pain.
Only cacti, heat and sun for miles:
We crossed rivers and deserts.
mountains, hills and valleys.
Smugglers awaited us at the border,
demanding thousands to pass to a safe place.
“If you don’t pay, you die!”
What lay ahead we did not know.
But I knew no place could be better
than where I was born.

Mohammed Arafat
This poems talks about the refugees forced to leave their homelands.
403 · Apr 2020
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2020
Since years and years,
they talked Salam.
I see no Salam.
What is Salam?
I don’t know how to say Salam.

Mohammed S Arafat
Peace means Salam in Arabic. This poem is for those who have been talking about Salam and never made it happen.
391 · Jan 2019
In Gaza
Mohammed Arafat Jan 2019
In Gaza, we have what makes life worth living. Walking in its narrow streets among its unpainted small buildings means a lot to anyone knowing the meaning of loving their homeland. Greeting the neighbors and friends with Assalamu Alaykom (السلام عليكم) or Sabahul Khair (صباح الخير) or Sabahul Nour (صباح النور) every morning and every evening creates an indescribable and an unimaginable feeling within us. Our mothers telling us تصبح على خير  (goodnight) every night we are about to sleep is just tasty and unforgettable.

Despite the obstacles hitting it, financially or politically, you smell different Palestinian traditional food cooked whenever you walk by any Gaza home. Yummy, how delicious that food is! We smell fried eggs (بيض مقلي) or Hummos (حمص) during breakfast. You smell Maqlouba (مقلوبة), Mujadara (مجدرة) or Musakhan (مسخن) during lunchtime and Shakshukah (شكشوكة) or Falafel (فلافل) during dinner.
You hear kids playing, and engaged couples calling each other on the lower window of the homes hiding from their parents because they are shy. You see elders holding hands going shopping as if they married yesterday. In Gaza, you see true love. Whenever you look at any face, black, white, bronze or brown, you find a hidden innocent smile of a child, an elderly, a woman and a man. We all consider ourselves one. Looking at the buildings of the central Gaza, you can find the history of those who our great great great grandparents lived with. You find mosques and churches built beside each other in peace. You see Muslims and Christians shaking hands and sharing a cup of unsweetened Arab coffee (قهوة سادة) or Silany tea (شاي سيلاني). Sometimes they share a cigarette (سيجارة) or a Sheesha (شيشة) while sitting listening to Om Kalthoum (أم كلثوم) or to Abdul Basset( عبد الباسط عبد الصمد).
Despite the insecurity, you can see Gaza people gather in the streets at midnight during occasions, in the golden clean beach during summer, in malls, shops and cafes during winter. In Gaza, restaurants of Shawerma are full to the fullest. In Gaza, Restaurants of Falafel are everywhere. Shops of Konafeh (كنافة) never close. You can find Arabic Konafeh (كنافة عربية), Nabulseya (كنافة نابلسية), Baklava (بقلاوة) and Osh el-bolbol (عش البلبل).
Despite fear, you can see Gaza youth support Real Madrid and Barcelona at coffee shops or public places just like the rest of the world. Sometimes they support Ahly and Zamalek as well.
In Gaza, people refuse to knee. They refuse to unsmile or unsilenced. In Gaza, people say they want to be free.

Mohammed Arafat
I wrote this free verse about the positive side of the Gaza Strip despite the bad situations hitting it and its patient people.
366 · Apr 2021
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2021
O, “compassionate” ones.
they still cling to life,
even though it’s wretched.
Their daydreams are lost, but,
from desperation spring new hopes.
I am talking about your people,
who are still waiting for a hope,
from you, from every one of you,
so they can keep clinging to life.

Mohammed Arafat
341 · Apr 2019
To My First and Last Love
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2019
Our first day together,
wasn’t a normal date like lovers’.
I was happy to be with you,
and to be yours.
I knew nothing.
I saw nothing,
but I felt the beats of your heart,
against mine,
when you hugged me.

I didn’t hear anything,
but I heard you praying to God,
that I never become intractable,
and to be someone who will always love you.

You were always there for me.
I was selfish, and moody but in love with you.
I some days hurt you,
and you healed me.
I sometimes ruined your days,
and you fixed mine.

Days and nights go by pretty too fast,
and I didn’t forget your voice or how you look.
Holding your photo while in bed at present,
I just wish the day comes soon, and it will come,
so I can be on my knees beside your knees,
kissing your blessing hands,
just like how you rocked my cradle at night for years and years,
while singing and praying for me.
My mother, Endlessly, unhesitantly and immortally I say it, and will always do,
I love you today and everyday.

Mohammed Arafat
This poem to my mother who is the best of love.
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2020
I am from a place,
where violence takes place,
by outsiders and insiders.
I oppose horror
and every fear chasing me.
I barely can, though.

In my thoughts, however,
I flee the darkness,
the hate and the arrogance.
I run off the imposed siege along with my tears,
with my good and bad memories,
with my stolen childhood,
and my ruined adulthood,
with my beating heart full of holes.

Into the farthest city, I want to descend,
like a prophet, an angel or a human.
I just want to descend anyways,
into Jerusalem, the city of peace,
and righteous.

I walk through the lanes of its old town,
among the stalls of its old markets,
built of limestone.

With my wide-open eyes,
I mediate the high woody gates,
closed for hundreds of years,
I stare at its historic walls,
several armies from different times,
tied their mares to, across old ages.

I gape at the Holy Sepulcher Church,
the Omar Mosque located behind it,
and the mounts beside.
I sense the worshipers all around,                                                                                        Muslims, Jews, Christians
praying and thanking God,
for the peace, he gives them, daily.

I get into the deep alleyways,
full of people with and without Kofeyyas.
I look at the golden Dome of the Rock,
and the Al-Aqsa Mosque,
from outside, insanely.

I take off my plastic slippers at the entrance,
after checking all details around with my five senses.
Getting ready to pray too, I enter the holy mosque.
I raise my hands,
and pray,
for peace and for love,
in Jerusalem,
and around Jerusalem.

Mohammed Arafat

316 · Mar 2020
We Are The Majority
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2020
We Are The Majority

With hopes to be leaders
our mothers gave birth to us
not at the same time
We aren’t with the same age
but from the same generation
the 90s.

We do politics and fight
We cook Shakshuka at night
We study with no light
We do everything
but not the elections right

It’s their first and last call
They try every spring and fall
to create an elections hope
but it’s a high high wall

They are seated well
They smoke and chill
and sleep in a hotel
If we talk
we are sentenced to hell!

Is it our fault?
We are the majority
Please listen and halt
We need clarity

Mohammed Arafat
284 · Apr 2019
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2019
They born black,
They get attacked,

Not their fault,
It’s the assault,

Not their race,
Or their place,

It is the heart,
Tearing us apart,

They are human,
Good man and woman.

They are not white,
But having light,

And having right,
Not to have fright.

Being called salve,
They already forgave,

They go to school,
They are cool,

Some join universities,
Others have diversities,

Some become teachers,
With different features,

They are nurses,
They write verses,

They sing jazz,
But.. Whereas,

They treated badly,
And it’s sadly,

Making me write,
For their right,

That they need unity,
Within the community,

Mohammed Arafat
To those who are scared of being racisted, this poem is for you.
283 · May 2020
You, again, Appear
Mohammed Arafat May 2020
When none is around me

I find only myself closer.

Silence, silence and then

our memories together appear

like a good-looking ghost

which I hear about in folklore.

It reminds me of the moments

that I can’t forget.

No worries, good memories

The ghost tells me not to weep

because time will not bring relief

after you are deceased.

It’s a big lie!

Mohammed Arafat
I wrote this poem to mourn the death of my grandmother who we painfully lost her on May 7th, 2020
265 · Mar 2021
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2021
It’s not over,
if I choose myself,
over the noise of life.
I am what I need,
when I drown,
in my thoughts,
and when it’s dark. 

Mohammed Arafat
March 12th, 2021
249 · Jul 2019
Memory From Srebrenica
Mohammed Arafat Jul 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!
Today marks the 24th anniversary of the massacre of the Bosnian town of Srebrenica.
245 · Mar 2021
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2021
It’s not over,
if I choose myself,
over the noise of life.
I am what I need,
when I drown,
in my thoughts,
and when it’s dark. 

Mohammed Arafat
235 · Mar 2020
When Coronavirus Spoke
Mohammed Arafat Mar 2020
Mirror hung on my wall
I am staring at you
A conversation starts
between us two

Ununited the world is
You have hate to one another
Rage sneaks into your lives
to your nerves and blood
They love you when they need you
They leave you when you need them

The strong prey on the weak
The rich steal the poor
You have no right to speak
Patronage plays the role

Families divided
Decisions decided
Bad presided
You misguided

I come for a reason
to make you thankful
to stop the treason
and believe in handful

You came to teach us
but with a big fuss
Our families are pretty ill
Please, teach, but don’t ****!

Mohammed Arafat
Every new day comes while we are still quarantined at our houses and away from our friends and beloved ones, the Coronavirus shocks us with new surprises. Today, it inspired me to write this poem.
218 · Nov 2020
It’s 12 AM
Mohammed Arafat Nov 2020
Tick tock.
It’s midnight.
From East to West,
everyone is sleeping,
but me.
It’s dark everywhere.
Owls are no longer hooting.
I can’t hit the mattress,
not because it’s fall,
not because it’s cold,
but because I miss her,
the one poetry should,
be written for.
I miss my first love.
I miss my mom!

Mohammed Arafat
November 14, 202
216 · Nov 2020
When it Happened
Mohammed Arafat Nov 2020
On this breezy evening,
fall leaves swish.
Stars twinkle in the skies,
behind puffy clouds,
with no full moon around.

I now remember the night time,
when it all happened,
years ago.
Black and grey was what I felt.
I can’t forget how it started,
and how it ended.

I remember the anguish and pain,
the only emotions that remain,
and every detail of that moment.

At this time every year,
I look at the skies and say,
“It won’t happen again.”
“It won’t happen again.”

Mohammed Arafat
November 9th, 2020
213 · Dec 2020
Mohammed Arafat Dec 2020
I wonder if my heart dropped or fluttered.
All I know was that,
it was filled with inexplicableness.
I ended up accepting it.
After some days,
you gave me a full-blown flower,
but I never learnt about,
its sharpened thorns,
until they pricked my heart...

Mohammed Arafat
210 · Apr 2019
Behind the Closed Doors
Mohammed Arafat Apr 2019
When I was a young boy,
I didn't know what regimes meant.
Cared about my toys only,
I busied myself playing.
Sometimes, my dad listened to news on his antique radio.
I shared listening as well not because I loved news,
but because I loved my dad.

It was my first time hearing them.
I heard them talking about democracy,
freedom of speech,
human rights,
men rights,
and women rights.
I believed them,
and continued my days and years,
I lived my life,
believing I would have what they talked about.

I look around now though,
finding the opposite,
after dozens of years.
I hear them over and over again.
They say the same rhythm every time.
They lie the same lies forcing us to believe them.
Yet, I didn’t hear their murmurs behind the closed doors.
I wish I could ages ago.

Mohammed Arafat
A shortcut of some regimes right now
206 · Aug 2020
A Song for My Land
Mohammed Arafat Aug 2020
A Song for My Land

I am neither a singer nor a rapper,
but loving my land makes me sing.

I sing to my far land,
in which my dreams grew.
I sing to the land that gave me patience,
that gave me bravery,
that planted love into me,
which became high green trees,
reaching the skies of other hearts.

I sing to the land where love lives,
with hate trying to replace it.

I sing to my land,
that I long night after night,
song after song,
curse after curse,
tear after tear,
nightmare after another.

I sing to my land,
where I lost friends and family,
where good people die, not of hunger,
but of oppression,
where good and bad exist,
where easy gets complex,
where stories are narrated by silence,
voices are heard from dead,
and decisions are made by foolish.

I sing to my land,
where infants are born political,
and their worrying about their futures becomes their toys.

I sing to the land,
where brains are washed with fear,
where farms are separated with walls,
where people split with destruction,
where hearts divided with revenge.

I will still sing to Palestine,
for what it gave me,
and for what it took from me!

Mohammed S Arafat
174 · Oct 2020
Mohammed Arafat Oct 2020
The caged bird,
can seldom see through,
the bars of the cage,
in darkness.
He has clipped wings.
He has tied feet.
He has empty stomach and plate,
but he can sing.   

He sings with fear.
He sings with agony,
but he sings love songs.
He thinks he is heard.
He is not!

Mohammed Arafat
No caption needed as this poem talks about a lot of what we see every single day in our lives.
162 · Nov 2019
Mohammed Arafat Nov 2019
Rain is over,
but I see raindrops all over the window,
while I am wrapped with three blankets,
and the fourth folded beside me.
It’s getting colder,
and I am getting warmer.
From the window,
I see neighbors having a campfire,
in their backyard,
With their kids around them.
I am warm, they are warm,
but thousands out there are not.
I am thinking of them all…
I am thinking of them all…
While you are in your bed covered with blankets and love, don't forget that there are thousands who aren't.
142 · Oct 2020
I will Rise
Mohammed Arafat Oct 2020
You may try to put me down,
With your twisted plots and lies.
You’ve got war history; I’ve got faith.
I hear your mocks; you hear my cries.
I look at you with my heart;
You look at me with your eyes.
Whatever you do, whatever you say,
Don’t think it’s a surprise.
Well, I am telling you this once:
Like dust, I will rise, I will rise.

Mohammed Arafat
Many entities try to put the Palestinians of Gaza, wherever they are, down, and they keep rising.
132 · May 2020
I Left for the Unknown
Mohammed Arafat May 2020
Terror fell upon my sleeping kids

on a May spring night

supposed to be full of joy.

They ran toward me with fright.

I opened my arms to them

in our small house

made out of compact mud and straw.

It fell while I was grabbing my three kids

with strength, weakness and fear.

Like them, with them, I ran

but toward no one

I ran toward the unknown

from a village to another

chased by guns and cannons

from every mountain and hill.

I saw nothing but fire everywhere.

Shrieks and cries broke the silence.

Fire reflected on the vacant faces

of those who had left their properties.

I walked days and nights

through the dry lands

soaked by rains of spring

not knowing where to go.

I left my everything


over there

and became displaced.

I still live in the unknown

waiting for my case to be resolved.

Mohammed Arafat

My grandfather was not a refugee like the 1.3 million Palestinian refugees living in Gaza, which is home to a population of approximately 2 million people. He was a farmer, who worked in cities like Haifa and Aka before inheriting his own farm in Gaza from his parents. Aaccording to him, not being able to go back to work in Haifa and Aka like before, however, made him feel like he was a refugee. This turned him into a completely different person. He fell in love with his farm in Gaza and used to spend more than 50 hours per week on that piece of green land.

It was his refuge for most his life. He made his Arabic salad there, using the tomatoes, onions, and peppers he planted. Green and sour grapes were an option when he didn’t have salt. The olive oil gave his salad a unique taste that I can’t describe in words. My father begged him not to drink the unfiltered water at the farm, but he couldn't be convinced, as he loved everything that came from his land. He once described his farm’s unfiltered water as real and  the filtered as fake.

The shade from the high olive trees that had been planted on his farm hundreds of years ago was his cover from the sun in the summer, and their dark green leaves were an umbrella for him in the winter. Citruses were his fruits, and the huge, local eggplant and cucumber were his vegetables.

I once questioned how he had shaved his beard before his death. I found out later that he had his own, little place for shaving on his farm. He hid a blade, a piece of soap, and a broken mirror behind a rock beside the farm's back fence.

The tough man with green eyes and gray hair, who walked an hour to his farm with a walking stick every day at dawn, was my grandfather. I guarantee he loved his farm more than anything else—not because it’s where he spent his time, but because land means life.

I am not exaggerating when I say that he died from sorrow over the 2012-2013 bombing of his Gaza farm.
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