Above a field of gull-white tents
on a beach in Gaza
backed up to hills of rubble,
music hovers,
an old guitar, a small drum called turteka,
and a song,
buoyantly beautiful.
Along the shore people run, swim,
children play soccer,
make art with shells and stones.
At the edge of the water
a young woman writes a poem,
folds it in a bottle
and throws it out into the waves.
I can barely fathom
an action so brave, so hopeful.
How do people wake every day
from nightmares,
from real bombs and drones
knowing with the dawn
someone else they love will be gone?
How do they pick through what remains
of their former lives, unforgotten,
toss it all in a backpack
and move on
again and again?
What kind of wisdom compels
Palestinians to stand up
when everyone tells them to lay down,
to fight for rights
for their land, for dignity, even beauty
when the oppressors say they have none.
What crazy wisdom frees them
to come back relentlessly as the sea
when so much of the world denies them
minimum humanity.