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I was once in a boat
And around me was deep dark water
I couldn’t see the bottom
So when my boat sprung a leak
I thought it was over
And i jumped head first into the water
And started to swim
To where the stars pointed
Until i couldn’t
So I prepared to die
But I didn’t
I lived.
We are all in a boat
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.
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
Did you buy the air for money, perhaps?
Or your lungs by labour?
Why is it that you feel entitled to be privileged to live, yet you
Deem for me no worth of life?

Was it not the same God that gave you the air and the lungs to breathe it by?
Then why do you consider the ground you tread deserving of my blood sacrifice?

Why is it that you feel entitled
To live,
While me,
To die?

In God's realm there is no majority nor minority,
Only that there is the one who hoarded pleasures,
And the one who was robbed of it.
And one day,
One day,
You will answer for why you thought the lungs and air
You and I got for the same price
Was only worthy of yourself.
Again, the plight of the Uighur, Rohingya, Syria, Yemen and Palestine etc, does not cease in torture. (Also, I am back from a half-year long writer's block, guess I lost the inspiration and passion, and eventually interest).
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".
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.
Penmann Jun 25
A wall will never stop the spread of disease;
Even if you are called the civilized west,
Banksy won't and can't make the cries to cease.
Cries from forefront clashes, from throwing rocks...
Hand over one's heart,
We all profit off; selling outdated Glocks.

Mapping out the labyrinth tale with a frag
Minotaur's keep the fight alive in this hell
A mechanic social manipulation
With hearts of Palestine in confiscation
Teenage angst never did pay off well.

One thing to comfort the Jew,
They're going to die anyway,
And so will you.

A sky full of sulfur
Coming down on little kids.
These aren't stars,
These are toxic tears.
These aren't stars,
You carry on your flags,
What shines are shells, grenades and frags.

Misuse of weaponry, a national trait;
Once second world war victims,
Now a first world charade.
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.
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
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.
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