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

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,
arrogance,
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.
no!
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

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,
heartlessly,
with their heavy weapons.

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

Mohammed Arafat
05-05-2019

Every morning I get up not finding you around,
or me around you.
‘Where are you?’ I whisper to myself like talking to you,
mindlessly.

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
02-05-2019

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,
randomly.

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
30-03-2019

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
27-03-2019

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,
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
14-03-2019

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
08-02-20

“Long live Palestine!”
we chanted every morning at primary school.
We were innocent,
Focused against the occupation,
hate,
violence
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
24-02-2019