Come back, Just come back

by Natalie Jabbar

The final poem I am sharing this April is by the Palestinian poet, playwright, and songwriter Khaled Juma, who was raised in Al-Shaboura Refugee Camp in Rafah in Gaza. He wrote this poem in 2014.

an illustration of a window that looks into darkness ,on the windowsill is a potted flower with petals falling and a broken white and blue ceramic vase on its side
Art by Kristina Closs

Oh Rascal Children of Gaza

Oh rascal children of Gaza,
You who constantly disturbed me
with your screams under my window,
You who filled every morning
with rush and chaos,
You who broke my vase
and stole the lonely flower on my balcony.
Come back –
And scream as you want,
And break all the vases,
Steal all the flowers,
Come back,
Just come back…

You were first created out of love, so carry nothing but love to those who are trembling.

by Natalie Jabbar

The writer and educator Heba Abu Nada was killed by an airstrike on her home in Gaza on October 20, 2023. She was 32 years old.

an illustration of a heart with flowers coming out of it in the foreground, in the background is a sun shining light down onto the flowers and a constellation of celestial objects behind it on a black background
Art by Kristina Closs

Not Just Passing
by Heba Abu Nada

Yesterday, a star said
to the little light in my heart,
We are not just transients
passing.

Do not die. Beneath this glow
some wanderers go on
walking.

You were first created out of love,
so carry nothing but love
to those who are trembling.

One day, all gardens sprouted
from our names, from what remained
of hearts yearning.

And since it came of age, this ancient language
has taught us how to heal others
with our longing,

how to be a heavenly scent
to relax their tightening lungs: a welcome sigh,
a gasp of oxygen.

Softly, we pass over wounds,
like purposeful gauze, a hint of relief,
an aspirin.

O little light in me, don’t die,
even if all the galaxies of the world
close in.

O little light in me, say:
Enter my heart in peace. 
All of you, come in!

Translated from Arabic by Huda Fakhreddine via Mizna and Arab Lit

Some never imagine what a home can mean when an unfinished tune traps the ceiling.

by Natalie Jabbar
an illustration of a gate made of white feathers curving into each other
Art by Kristina Closs


The Thing About Feathers
By Nathalie Handal

We kept only the keys,
letters, and photos —
everything else stayed behind
when we left the house.
That can happen when
a nation changes overnight,
when those you know
turn into
a gate of feathers —
and the thing about feathers is,
they know what’s been missed.
For years I watch
my neighbor’s house
from others’ windows—
different countries,
various homes,
some of brick, some of stone.
Some never imagine
what a home can mean
when an unfinished tune
traps the ceiling.
I pretend
never to have
seen a body midair,
a father’s hands
planted on the ground—
after all
what we don’t admit to
never happened.
But I couldn’t
change that day in Murcia,
when water brought light
to the door:
I am seven
it is the day before our departure,
the day my father
gives me a notebook,
and I tell him,
this is where I’ll keep my country.

from Poet in Andalucia