Wala - Susan Abulhawa

   

Wala - Susan Abulhawa

It’s 3 am
In the cattle cage

The line is long
And thick
With bodies

You wait

A jibneh sandwich
With cucumber
In a plastic bag
Clutched in your callused laborer’s hand

Your wife prepared your breakfast and lunch
She was up before you
And together you prayed a predawn salat

She kissed your face and said
Allah ma’ak ya habibi 
Allah be with you, my love

You kiss the faces of your sleeping babies
You haven’t seen them awake in months
And you wonder
Has Walid’s voice begun to crack yet?
Have Wijdad’s hips begun to flare?
How big was Suraya’s smile when she came home
with her report card?

It’s 4 am
In the cattle cage

Still, you wait
The line before you is so long
And behind you now, it is longer

Few speak
You’re packed so damn tight
That you hold one another upright

You see your own fatigue
Reflected in the weariness etched on
The faces all around you

You look away
Pine for a smoke
But who the hell can afford that?

You stare at the graffiti beyond the
Iron bars holding you in
Written just for you
Written
By zionist settlers sucking the breath from your lungs

You understand the meaning
Of their English words
“Die Sand Niggers”

Sometimes
You pine for that, too.

It’s 5 am
In the cattle cage

The soldiers arrive
The line loosens
You take one step forward
Propelled by the weight of bodies
Behind you

Your jibneh sandwich
With cucumber
In a plastic bag
Is crushed.
It never survives

It’s 7 am
In the cattle cage

Now is your turn
You produce your papers
Unfold and refold
Eyes down
Heart down
Your shoes are down on their luck

But
You’re out of the line
Fifteen men before you were pulled aside
And you tried not to look
Not to hear the one begging
Don’t hit me

It’s 7:30 am
On the cattle bus

You ride
The country they stole from you
Seeds outside your window
And you imagine
The man you would have been
The man you should have been
Out there
Riding the family steed
The thoroughbred mares your grandfather
Raised and nurtured and loved
In a Palestine
Un-raped
Un-stolen

It’s 8 am
You get off the cattle bus
Your crushed jibneh sandwich
With cucumber
In a plastic bag
In one hand

Your eyes down
Heart down
You put your toolbox down to knock
On the zionist settler’s back door
Where the help goes

But

The zionist settler boss-man yells
Wala
Mish hon el yom! 
Not there today
Boy!

And all you can do is thank Allah that your
Wife and your babies are not
There to hear them call you
Wala

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