As we hopelessly witness the carnage in Gaza it is probably futile and somewhat arrogant to philosophize and write anything. Between Islamist and Zionist agenda children and innocent lives are wasted and we carry on blogging and signing our petitions.But sometime we do have to write and survive, it is better than silence. Maybe we have to look towards art for solace and find inspiration to resist and protest in a more effective, humane way. I present you Emily Jacir and her art project called Where We come From, currently in display at the San Francisco MOMA.

Jacir's photographs are simple but yet profoundly reminds us about the impact of simple art. Her work reminds us about the homes we lost, the homes we gained, the homes that we made where there wasn't any "home", and that very "home" that we never found or visited:



She used her U.S. passport to gain access to the occupied territories and come back -- a task which might sound surprisingly simple but is extremely difficult for some people. While she was there she took requests from people and fulfilled each wish:

"Go to Haifa and play soccer with the first Palestinian boy you see on the street."

"Drink the water in my parents' village."

"Go to Bayt Lahia and bring me a photo of my family, specially of my brother's kids."

"Go to the Israeli post office in Jerusalem and pay my phone bill."

"Go to my mother's grave in Jerusalem on her birthday and place flowers and pray."

Taha Muhammad Ali is one of the leading poets from Palestine. Born in 1931 in Galilee village of Saffuriya, he fled to Lebanon, after his village was destroyed during the Arab-Israeli war of 1948. A year later he slipped back across the border with his family and settled in Nazareth, where he has lived ever since. This poem is from a recent collection So What: New & Selected Poems, 1971-2005, Translated by Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi, and Gabriel Levin. Published by Copper Canyon Press.

THROMBOSIS IN THE VEINS OF PETROLEUM
By Taha Muhammad Ali.

When I was a child
I fell into the abyss
but didn’t die;
I drowned in the pond
when I was young,
but did not die;
and now, God help us—
one of my habits is running
into battalions of land mines
along the border,
as my songs
and the days of my youth
are dispersed:
here a flower,
there a scream;
and yet,
I do not die!

----
They butchered me
on the doorstep
like a lamb for the feast—
thrombosis
in the veins of petroleum;
In God’s name
they slit my throat
from ear to ear
a thousand times,
and each time
my dripping blood would swing
back and forth
like the feet of a man
hanged from a gallows,
and come to rest,
a large, crimson mallow
blossom—
a beacon
to guide ships
and mark
the site of palaces
and embassies.

-----

And tomorrow,
God help us—
the phone won’t ring
in a brothel or castle,
and not in a single Gulf Emirate,
except to offer a new prescription
for my extermination.
But …
just as the mallow tells us,
and as the borders know,
I won’t die! I will not die!!
I’ll linger on—a piece of shrapnel
the size of a penknife
lodged in the neck;
I’ll remain—
a blood stain
the size of a cloud
on the shirt of this world!