Stolen

a poem for the Palestinians taken in the night and the families left waiting

Trigger Warning

This poem contains references to torture, sexual violence, and the abuse of Palestinian hostages.

I offer this warning as a courtesy.

The people inside this poem, including my cousin, received no such courtesy.

•••

they came before dawn

boots on tile

flashlights sweeping family photos

my aunt reached her son first

throwing her body over his

she screamed his name

the butt of a gun answered

her body crumpling against the wall

bruise already forming

while soldiers dragged her child

through the doorway

the last thing she heard

before the door closed

was her son crying

and screaming for help

•

his bedroom remained

exactly as it was left

when he was stolen

with sleep still in his eyes

schoolbooks on the shelf

a jacket hanging behind the door

a pencil waiting

between unfinished homework

every friday

she dusted his room

every sunday

she washed the sheets

not because she knew

he was coming back

because mothers cannot bury

a child with no grave

years collected

in the corners of the house

his younger siblings grew taller

weddings filled

and emptied chairs

around the table

his bedroom remained untouched

every knock at the door

pulled her from her seat

every unfamiliar engine

sent her to the window

hope became a ritual

she practiced daily

then one morning

the door opened

and there he was

older

thinner

his face carrying years

that should not belong to him

•

my aunt ran to him

arms open

already smiling

already crying

already reaching for the little boy

who used to launch himself

into every embrace

the little boy

who never met a hug

he didn’t return

her arms wrapped around him

his shoulders rose

his elbows tucked tight

his hands moved to protect his ribs

for a few terrible seconds

he braced

and my aunt learned

before a single word was spoken

that something

had come home

with her son

•

he chose the chair facing the door

always

in every room

every time

he studied exits

checked windows

slept in fragments

woke gasping

at sounds nobody else heard

one afternoon

a dog barked outside

and his coffee struck the floor

ceramic exploding across the kitchen

his eyes fixed somewhere

far beyond his home

beyond the table

beyond the house

beyond the years

he was back inside concrete

back inside rooms

where men prayed

through broken teeth

broken by men

who enjoyed inflicting pain

back inside rooms

where children learned

to count time without clocks

back inside rooms

where a grandfather forgot his

granddaughter’s age

because memory

was lost before hope

where men disappeared

without dying

where heads met concrete

again

and again

and again

until thoughts scattered

like birds from a tree

back inside rooms

where fire extinguishers

became weapons

emptied

inside of Palestinian bodies

where handlers laughed

while dogs were taught

that a Palestinian body

was something to violate

something to break

something less than human

something to rape

back inside rooms

where pain was not a question

not a demand

not a search for information

only pain

inflicted by men and women

for their own twisted sadism

•

the dog barked again

and every person at the table

understood where he had gone

because every Palestinian family

knows someone

a son

a daughter

a mother

a grandfather

a sister

a cousin

my cousin

taken before dawn

returned carrying walls

inside their bodies

if they returned at all

•

people call them prisoners

the Palestinians stolen in the night

but prisoners know

the length of their sentence

prisoners know their charge

prisoners go to court to be tried by law

my people aren’t prisoners

they’re hostages

taken

beaten

tortured

for the crime of being

Palestinian

•

my aunt spent years

sleeping beside uncertainty

waiting for a child

she could not prove was alive

waiting for a voice

waiting for a body

waiting

for anything

at all

•

in the evenings

she touches his face

the same way she had

when he was small

the same way she had

before soldiers taught him

to fear hands

before he forgot

touch could be gentle

and he flinches

as he always does

then catches himself

and leans into her palm

slowly remembering love

just for a moment

just long enough

for my aunt to see

the little boy

they stole

•

Photo by Ash Hayes on Unsplash

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