Nakba
A home without a door...
a key without a lock...
a name written in the sand
and washed away by the wind.
It was ’48,
when an entire people
was torn from its land
like roots burned by fire.
Villages fading into dust,
roads no longer leading home,
mothers holding children tight,
fathers in silence,
their gaze already broken.
And they called it
necessity, strategy, war...
but for those who lived it
it was only a scream
no one wanted to hear.
Nakba...
the catastrophe of a people on the move,
no roof, no land,
no certain horizon.
Nakba...
steps crossing the desert of history,
voices still asking
to be remembered.
Eight hundred thousand souls
pushed by the storm,
out of their homes,
into camps of dust,
into promises never kept.
Four hundred villages
vanished like burned photographs,
only ruins left behind,
and a single word
floating in the air:
return.
And every child born in exile
inherited
a key without a door,
a memory not their own,
and a question carried
through generations:
“Why?”
Nakba...
a wound that never healed,
a book left open
that no one dared to read.
Nakba...
memories scattered like shards of glass
between the barricades of the present.
As long as exile exists,
a story must be told.
As long as a land is not for all,
the Nakba is not over.
One word...
carried by the wind.
A memory...no one can erase.