text: This poem first appeared in This Week in Palestine’s themed issue on “Security in Palestine.”
  I paid my privilege for a ticket, hopeful
  that from 35,000
  reality would shine blue and green,
  not red and viscous.
  I sought days without tach-tach,
  nights free of children crying “auntie”
  from a freezing caravan
  under a GRM-enabled sign: Human Appeal UK.
  Isn’t escape sometimes justified?
  I recline, press “new releases” on my private screen
  that my compassion excludes
  those who self-medicate with berry-flavored argila
  at the cost of a chicken dinner for a family in Rafah.
  Hypocrite. And naïve!
  Return renewed? Ha!
  If not to the physical front lines where kafiyas meet tear gas,
  then to the psychic front lines where adrenalin meets exhaustion.
  From which store in Manara Square does one buy renewal? In what currency is it sold?
  Chicago, Yarmouk, Lesbos, Shuhada Street – there are too many fronts, too many fronts.
  I realize now that I sought solace in a place
  that is no more
  or that only existed
  in the imagination
  of a white,
  I realize now that I have returned to a place
  that no longer exists
  or perhaps only existed
  in the fantasy of a foolish,
  Hope is a fickle lover. It entices with curly hair tossed with fearlessness. Then it crumbles
  into fet-a-feat when you can’t attend the funeral of Israel’s martyr du jour
  because you can’t, because you just can’t, because you really just can’t.
  The Intifada was pre-paid on a card bought in 10 shekel coins at the Jawwal kiosk,
  but that does not mean we were prepared for the lights to go out.
  In the dark, strategic options are obscure,
  shall we meet to discuss at that old café where the wi-fi is strong?