Sand Path that’ll Lead the Refugees Home

I said enough–
of the hecklers and the haters and the 
flicked fingers and the Bibi defenders and 
the hey hey’s and the ho ho’s and the 
occupation that never seems to go because 
Genocide Joe– 
cares about all the hostages but 
the ones in the Open Air Prison.

I said enough–
of the Nakba 74 and 75 and so on
[This Israeli Independence Day:
I hope Yaacov blows himself enough balloons 
to send him flying back to Brooklyn]

So how ‘bout this?
Hey, Genocide Joe:
How ‘bout instead of pausing the bombing,
or feeling sad about the bombing,
How bout we actually… end the Bombing? 
End the Nakba? 
          End the Nakba? How ‘bout that?

I want to end the Nakba;
I want to plant all our picket signs into the ground 
and watch them grow and sprout 
into every last olive tree 
that’s ever been torched to ashes;

–I want these picket signs to become something–

Your picket stick,
will be the spinning batons 
swirling and signing “freedom” 
into the air of Beit Lahm

Yours, 
will be the ore of a Gazan fisherman 
that’ll taste unsoiled sea at last

And yours–
Yours will be the cane of the headmaster 
of the longest dabke line there ever was; 
And we will dance–
in a chain that’ll outstretch all the shackles of Israeli prison 
Put together. 

I want our bright orange marshal vests,
To never again be the burial sheets of another Rachel Corrie;
I never want to see these vests again
Except on a Eid day when Rafah is so jam-packed 
that a mother fears she’ll lose her child 
in the bakery smoke 
instead of tear gas; 

There will be children 
clutching maamoul in place of rocks; 
There will be kites 
to teach the doves how to fly again; 
And mark my words–
I will link arms with every child 
like a chain of Jerusalem’s sesame bread 
And yes, we will dance– 
in a long-winding fence 
For now there are no walls anymore

I want a khalto, 
to bake us some legendary knafeh;
I want a khalto to bake that kind of knafeh 
that can stretch and patch the swiss cheese map
back into an unbreakable atlas; 

There will be food on this land 
that’ll make life worth living; 

There’ll be a teta
that’ll sculpt a maqloobeh flip
back into a refugee’s lost sandcastle;
On this Land, 
The only greenlines 
will be acre upon acre of teta’s fresh mint 
and the only thing that’ll camouflage
is the greenwash that used to poison it.

But never again.

Never again of the 
greenwash and the 
pinkwash and the poison;
Never again,
of the detainees and the 
drone strikes and the death marches

–Never Again will a child only be able 
to come near an ice cream truck 
when they’re dead.

Never Again 
will a teen’s body be pumped with so much gasoline
that it becomes a cattle car 
driving him out into exile, 
Never Again 
will a Father’s shoulders become the burial site 
of his sons face as he cowers
into his paternal arms 
Never again– 
Never again– 

I want to bring back Mohammed El-Durra to celebrate with us;
I want to bring back Mohammed Abu-Khdeir to celebrate with us;
I want to bring back Shireen AbuAkleh–I want to pull 
1,000 children out from the rubble to celebrate with us–
And I will initiate the longest Zaffah line 
to lead Ahmad Manasra out of prison 
where he will turn his twist ties into oud strings 
and he will play and laugh and sing and 
play and sing and dance 

And when we are done
We will take all the spoons of Gilboa prison
and we will dig– 
and dig–
and dig–
a tunnel to Ben Gurion’s grave 
And watch him turn as he realizes–

That the young have not forgotten

but for now, 
for now I’m just here
holding this picket sign 
for the fifth week again.
and as the car horns are cussing at me 
I just want to disappear for once 
And imagine that moment 
that Handala gets to turn around 
for the first time
And we all get to see his beautiful face at last;

and I want that boy, 
to gather all the children of Gaza
for a game of soccer 
under a bomb-less sky on a Rafah beach 
And I want that boy, 
to kick that soccer ball 
so, so far 
Until it engraves a sand path 
That’ll  lead every last one 
of our refugees
home.

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This poem was originally written for the annual Nakba protest that was happening earlier in the year. It came to me at a time of extreme burnout as an organizer—this intense demoralization as we were gathering on the same streets with the same people to chant the same slogans over and over again, to no avail. I became so tired of commemorating the Nakba and was desperate to finally end it. The poem was thus born out of the longing to move away from my rhetorical posture as an activist—the constant pushing and begging for the world to see the atrocities being committed. I was tired of begging. I wanted instead to just dream, to reminisce about all the things sentimental and joyous about the free Palestine that I’ve never known. 

But when I came back to the poem since the recent genocide in Gaza, it had a new resonance. I think at first it had no resonance; it’s hard to resonate with much amidst the obliteration of your home. When I looked at this poem for the first time since October 7th, I want to tell you it spoke to me—but it didn’t. No art had been able to speak to me since the bombs started dropping. It’s felt like half my heart is missing. 

So I think I had to speak to the poem rather than it speaking to me. When I was asked to speak at the November 11th protest at the Minnesota State Capitol—five weeks into perpetual slaughter—I didn’t know what there was left to say, how much begging of politicians there was to do. I knew that I could get up and give a technically good speech. I knew I could get up and shout and rally and chant and pretend to be so motivated and strong, but I would’ve been so disingenuous to my audience. So something told me to revisit that poem, to initiate this poignant moment for my people where we could all dream about liberation together, even when the grief has been debilitating.  

And so that’s what I did. I went back to the poem and revised it for us—and for the people of Gaza, for the children that’ve been reduced to casualty counts, “persons under 18,” shock-factor photos on a flyer. I performed to transport us to the Palestine that I’ve never set foot in, the Palestine that will never see a bomb-filled sky again. 

May my poem one day transcend the page, and may I get to perform it again when we can gather not to protest, but to celebrate. 

Watch Sana perform this poem at the November 11th protest at the Minnesota State Capitol.

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Sana Wazwaz is a Palestinian-American writer, performer, and organizer. She is the Chapter Lead and Education Coordinator of American Muslims for Palestine Minnesota. She is a two-time member of New Arab American Theater Works’ Playwright Incubator Program where her play, Birthright Palestine, was performed in a staged reading in April 2023. Her poetry has been published in Palestinian Youth Movement’s 2021 Ghassan Kanafani Arts Anthology. Sana is a senior at Augsburg University studying creative writing.