29.67

I spent the flight in Palestine.

.

Locking arms and legs with Ellen,

in front of a dozer and a police van,

staring into the eyes of an Israeli soldier,

falling in love with Muna and Mohammed.

.

Confused about my voice.

.

For in my thoughts, it held no volume.

The anger at injustice building in my chest,

rising through my throat and

promptly stopping behind my lips,

resting on my tongue.

Wanting to dismantle every structure of

violence and oppression

that has ever kept me silent. Taught me to be silent.

To be still and not move.

Out of fear.

My soul screamed.

.

Be a good girl. Don't rock the boat. Do what you are told.

.

And now the voice inside of me is calling me forward, calling me forth.

Leaving me confused, and scared.

Which is where the system wants me.

And again the frustration begins to swell.

I want to yell.

I want to scream and expose the ethnic cleansing of Palestine.

I want to parade the crimes of our government against the marginalized

out in front of naked eyes, watching them become aware

of the horror, of the damage, of the pain and loss suffered everyday.

I want to air our dirty laundry.

I want to wash it.

So that one day, there is a chance for it to be clean.

So that one day Muna and Mohammed

will have the chance to sleep without

fear

Won't have to hold onions and garlic to cut the stinging of tear gas.

Won't have to live the violence my cousins

only know in the video games they play for fun.

.

And you ask me if Palestine actually exists,

or if the land I am speaking of is actually Israel.

You puncutate it, IS-RA-EL, like I don't know what you mean.

All I can do is think of Ellen and her story.

Her words.

Her experience.

Her heart.

Her family.

Her arm being shot from 15 feet away

by a bullet that the United States paid for.

And though those images are ingrained on my mind,

they are not mine and never will be.

But slowly, those images loosen my tongue.

The images in my mind are slowly forming into words

and quietly I begin to speak.