How does a genocide end?
by Aicha Bint Yusif
1. The butterfly effect: a butterfly settles on the barrel of a gun, and whispers to the
soldier about to pull the trigger: you think you are winning.
2. The man (sometimes it’s a woman) whose hand raised vetoes against a ceasefire, is
idiopathically paralyzed at the exact moment and time; the neural electric charge gets
stuck somewhere along his spine. The hand is not raised, and humanity is saved.
3. Soldiers' hearts are stiff and dry. One day, while walking among the debris, their
hearts shatter into million pieces, their guns are dropped, and they hurry back to their
families for a warm hug.
4. Genocide- geno=people, cide=killing.
When there are no people left,
and that’s when we will all be dead.
5. The elements: the wind becomes unyielding to advanced missiles and iron domes.
The sea becomes unforgiving to the blood spilled. The soil becomes sand dunes
beneath the heavy tanks, and fire. The fire engulfs the whole world in its flames.
6. God wakes up from his stupor and tells his favorite people that they’re grounded for
acting in impunity and brutality. He sees everything, and as he announces his verdict,
he flips through a white sheet with all the hasanat (good deeds) and the saye2at (bad
deeds).
7. None of the above, a genocide never ends. Its scars are engraved in our souls. The
absence of body limbs reminds us of what was there. Gaza keeps asking: when shall
this pass? Refaat’s voice echoes through the abyss.
Bread
by Aicha Bint Yusif
In Arabic, there are many words for bread. One of them is ,عيش which is derived from the
verb root a’ash عاش. My name is also derived from the same root عايشة Aicha. By bread, we
live. Jesus already knew that. So when they sent flour in white boxes falling from blue skies,
we ran to catch them: fetch flour, make bread and live. But they hate us more than they love
bread: they waited for the bait to be thrown in the shape of flour in white boxes, then
bombarded us from blue skies. Now we have crimson colored عيش.
Distance
by Aicha Bint Yusif
It is told that Israeli soldiers, upon raiding houses in the West Bank, hurry to put their hands
on the hearts of young kids (mainly boys): if their heart is beating very fast, it means that they
have been running and throwing stones, hence they’re arrested. If their heart is calm and is
beating slowly, it means they’re not afraid of soldiers yanking them from the neck with a rifle
dangling around their waist, so they terrorize them.
Either way- what good is a heart if it does not beat at just the right pace?
Fragments of bearing witness
by Aicha Bint Yusif
-1-
Last night I was writing an ode to figs
When bombs filled the skies and turned blue to gray
Light to darkness, and laughs to cries.
I put the figs aside, and contemplated bombs.
Maybe if I sing them an ode to praise them, they will stop killing us?
-2-
I can never tell the difference between convex and concave.
Nor between midriasis and miosis.
I keep reminding myself of the difference, drawing them on the back of books
And agendas
But it never works.
However,
I know the difference between genocide and war:
war is between two sides fighting until one surrenders,
And genocide is when one side tries to exterminate a whole innocent group.
Now it’s your turn.
-3-
The taxi driver thought about his father’s tobacco box
As the passenger in the backseat squeezed more bags filled with his son and daughter’s body
limbs.
His wife handed him another white bag filled with body limbs and lumps,
And reminded him to be careful on the road- the kids are young.
-4-
Yesterday was el día de todos los santos
this same day, Gaza
Lost so many saints in the shape of children
Pulled from underneath the rubble:
Their limbs flaccid and their faces dusty,
Just like a slaughtered pigeon.
Dead children are organized in mass graves horizontally and sometimes vertically-
they just had a growth sprout and became taller than their mothers.
Years later, when we light candles in el día de los muertos for Gaza’s genocide,
How will they leave the ground to join us for the day?
Aren’t they crammed there?
Will they stand in line, waiting to leave
Just like they waited in life at Rafah checkpoint?
About the author
Aicha عايشَة means “she lives” or “she who is alive” in Arabic. Aicha Bint Yusif grew up in the Lower Galilee. She holds a degree in English Literature and Honors interdisciplinary program, and is currently studying Medicine. She mainly writes poetry, and her works appear in Rusted Radishes (Beirut) and World Literature Today (NYC) among others. She is passionate about languages, embroidery and running. In addition, she is the founder of Poetry is Closer than the Sea project. Her Instagram is @aichabintysif, and her word press blog is https://thelittlelanternsun.wordpress.com/.