and the rockets will stop,
the bombs will reverse course,
apartment buildings once in ruins
will stand up straight and tall again
with all the occupants picking up
where they left off.
The smoke will clear.
The sky will be blue and soft spoken
without the wrenching cry of warplanes,
and all the dead and wounded
will resume their lives
as if nothing had happened.
There will be no reason to weep,
no stretchers to rush through emergency doors,
no bodies to bear to hastily dug graves,
and all will be well, yes,
all will be well
for the oppressor and the oppressed
who will retreat once more
to their appointed zones
on either side of an endless divide --
the wall, the wire, the turrets
with the guardians inside,
guns at the ready,
ready to kill any who trespass
on God's holy land
where there is food and fuel,
and flowing rivers of light,
and healthy, young women,
and healthy, young men
dancing all night in the desert,
never thinking too much
about the people over there,
the ones who don't have enough to eat,
who don't have enough to live,
who are little more than pent-up swine.
Then it came to pass that armed men
carried aloft on motorized wings
crossed over one early morning
with their pain, their suffering,
their decades of betrayal,
of seeing their fortunes, their futures
slip away, disappear, come back
as bitterness, as hatred, as a pin-point focus
of vengeance no matter the cost
to their families, the families of their families,
the whole living world from which they arose.
How, we ask, could they execute
innocent revelers, ravers, beautiful flowers
of a desert miracle, proud magnificence
of a chosen people whom God has granted
the right to own everything, even the land,
now a well of blood gurgling up and over
roads, fields, orchards, groves,
flooding the consciousness of everyone --
shepherds with their flocks,
wise men with their scrolls and books,
proud citizens, waving their nation's flag,
demanding retribution for what was done.
As it was written,
armies will rampage without mercy,
laying waste to entire villages,
consecrating roads, fields, orchards, groves
with the blood of their enemy,
no matter how old,
no matter how young.
I think if I were a desert prophet
I would fall to my knees
and beat the earth with my fists,
and weep till my tears surpassed the blood
still falling upon this divided land.
I would demand an explanation from God,
and if none were forthcoming,
I would lament
as I am doing now
for all those whose pain
I can only name but never feel
except as this terrible sorrow welling up in me
for the harm we do to each other.
Let me tell you about tonight
when I met with Friends
fellow Quakers,
and told them how I feel
about the carnage that has come to pass
once more in the land of miracles,
and their only response
was to hold in the Light
the bloody victims on both sides.
Let us hold them in the Light,
we said, our heads bowed in silence,
and I asked myself, what Light?
Show me this Light.
Will it hold the little boys and girls
I see among the ruins in Gaza
and Israel, bloodied, bloodied, dear God,
and crying in the arms of mothers and fathers
just as bloodied and crying in the flames, the sirens, the smoke, the bullets, the fragments
of exploded shells, the thunder of artillery fire, the bombs falling and falling and falling
turning a beggarly strip of land into an ever-burgeoning hell.
Has the price been paid?
Has the vengeance been enough?
Is it time for peace to raise its shattered head,
wave its old tattered flag,
and come crawling out of the trenches?
No, a thousand times no, shout our noble leaders.
The President, with his deadpan sidekicks -- Harris and Blinken -- behind him,
tells the world the war will continue.
Our resolve must not waiver,
our loyalty must become manifest
as more bombs, more missiles, more tanks,
maybe a second aircraft carrier,
while a member of the Israeli parliament,
with face unhinged and red fingernails flailing,
summons forth the power of nuclear weapons
to end once and for all the trouble with Gaza
and those cunning savages on the other side.
Let there be genocide, she rails,
a holocaust by -- not of -- God's chosen people.
And the leaders of the free world say nothing
but pose as public servants,
people of erudition, of statesmanship
who have neither love nor wisdom,
who have no pity in their hearts
for the hundreds of children already killed
and the hundreds more who will die
because war must have its grim statistics,
because death is good for business,
because old scores must be settled
and old wounds reopened,
because in the end, if the West has its way,
Palestine will be a picked-clean carcass in the desert,
its once living flesh gone to dust,
its eyes, once shining with pride
and a people's ancient beauty,
will be eternally shut,
and the victors, with their accomplices,
seeing what they've done,
will call it good,
ironclad proof that God's holiest army
has won.
George Capaccio is a writer and activist living in Arlington, MA. During the years of U.S.- and UK-enforced sanctions against Iraq, he traveled there numerous times, bringing in banned items, befriending families in Baghdad, and deepening his understanding of how the sanctions were impacting civilians. His email is [email protected] He welcomes comments and invites readers to visit his website: www.georgecapaccio.com
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