First Day as a Settler

Poetry by Jamil Adas
Photo by Igor Sporynin

A settler zionist's first day in a Palestinian home:

After a long day of deflecting accusations
Yaakov & Rachel creep into the house

The garden wonders
"Where are the hands that toil on me?"

The tree is confused,
it is no stranger to giving shade to people laughing,
but today's laugh comes with a sinister tone

The stain of sin spreads across the floor.
The walls look away in shame
they'd crumble if physics permit

The olive oil has grown sour.
They threw it out, thinking it's gone bad.
It's only bitter on their tongue.

The rocking chair’s creak—
fixed by Yaakov, silenced—
becomes unbearable,
unless you grew up with it.

The guitar is mute,
the telephone deaf.
Everything in the house is in protest.

Tonight, the pillow is met
with a pig's head.
It weeps,
yearning for dreams of a free Palestine.

They have not stolen the house;
A home is a feeling they rob themselves.
Their entrance is rape,
devoid forever of love,
chambers of their hearts locked,
hollow,
empty.

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