Poems on Family Basma Bsharat

Poems on Family

Basma Bsharat

I tell them about apartheid, And I describe checkpoints And electricity and water cut offs.

I recount the guns The humility The fear and the anger

I tell them about my grandmother, Who should’ve gotten better Who we lost early because She didn’t get the treatment she deserved

And all the little boys who Didn’t get to grow up Just because.

And the ones who Had to grow up too fast.

I tell them about all of this, So they ask me, “Then why go?”

Little do they know, That is exactly why I go.

I’ll never forget The night we found a litter of kittens, Sleeping in my grandfather's closet. Wrapped comfortably in our thick blankets.

“Why are they here?” We asked My aunt smiled, Carrying a small bowl of water to them.

“They just needed somewhere safe,” She softly tells us, Her smile a secret that None of us understood.

Artwork by Nisrin Shahin IG: Nisrin.Shahin

I’m sorry but My words do you no justice

I’m sorry that My memory Does not suffice.

I’m sorry for what they’ve done to you And I’m sorry that I’ve let them.

Artwork by Lamees Mehanna IG: Lmoneypaintz

I remember the last time I visited you, The summer air humid The cobblestone path a distinct image How it felt walking step by step Upon those shiny round stones That should be memorialized; Not stepped on.

I remember the spice cart And the aroma of Cinnamon, cardamom, Smells I don’t recognize But knew, if she were there, My mother would.

I remember the alleys, Each path a different door A different direction Of the sounds, the bustle, The beauty of life.

The scent of baked ka’ak And the taste of fresh pressed juice And the shouts of the little boy “5 shekels, 10 shekels,” Working to make a living Before he could read or write.

And then I remember you.

The heart stopping image Of my masjid Al Aqsa

Every bit of your architecture A beauty so profound It’s like coming home. They asked me what family is. And I used to think...me and my son. And of course my mom, dad, brothers and sister. But I couldn’t forget the aunts that are really mothers. And the uncles that are brothers and fathers. But also the cousin that is like a son. And second and third cousins that are sisters.

There is also the neighbor that sends us freshly grown mint leaves.

And the shop owner that gives us fresh juice even when we didn’t ask, just because we looked towards it.

There is the old woman that sits all day at her corner stop where she sells vegetables, whispering blessed prayers for everyone who walks by and says hello.

The taxi driver that, without a word, takes us through the back ways and alleys, risking himself like he was my own father.

There are the people I can’t even see, sprinkling cold water to cool us as we face the blazing sun of Jerusalem to pray.

Even the alley cat, that hides in corners waiting for scraps that eventually, one day, reveals itself to me, even just for a moment.

It’s every single individual, that I know and do not know, that welcomes me with open arms.

A stranger to them, one who turned her back on them in one way, at one point, or another. But still they take me in, because they are my family. Palestine.