Shadi Eskandani

I have no poems in me right now. There is no solace in pretty words. No declaration of hope today. Only grief.

74 days of slaughter.

What poetry is there for this abyss of death that is swallowing up my people back home?

And the slaughterers? The torturers? How do they live with themselves? Brutalizing their own people with such precision, such ease.

Today, I saw the image of a 16-year old boy, face down on the concrete, surrounded by his own blood. Somebody’s child. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s friend.

Every single day for 74 days. Somebody’s child. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s sister. Somebody’s friend, lover, neighbor, schoolmate, mother, father…

Some of us choose to entangle ourselves in political debates. Some of us choose distractions. Some of us point fingers. While some of us keep scrolling.

But what none of us can do is ignore this anvil of grief inside us. Make space for it, azizaan. Because it’s in grieving that we humanize the ones who have passed. It’s in grief that we connect with our humanity. 🖤