tell them, i named you Khadija,
translated “Palestinian girl who died in the fire”
for this land that wore her ribcage like a bulletproof vest;
for the nothome soil that became stone sanctuary all too quickly;
tell them, i named you hayat,
translated “life”
because even the most beautiful things need contradiction;
or amal,
translated “hope”
because even the most beautiful things need contradiction;
you are stone riot and frozen elegy,
rubble, and phoenix,
house built on stone and sand,
jerico before the walls came tumbling;
david born into golliath’s palms;
they will remember the way your father’s fist became
well acquainted with Zion’s jawline,
and you:
the hairline fracture;
the hawa that set the system ablaze;
they will remember the way your venom killed the world so softly;
how everyone three generations before you was named “aftermath”
but you?
you were amal,
you were Khadija before the eulogy got her,
you were hayat even though the world told you otherwise.
your existence is the biggest revolution
this world will ever witness.
my daughter;
they will remember your name,
and the way you refused your own cremation,
and reclaimed this lineage that reeks of ash and blood,
and this ghosttown of a homeland
that was never yours
never ours
to begin with.
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