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The Moment
By Basman Eldirawi
The saddest part is that we don’t know what the saddest part is
Is it this moment?
The next moment?
Is the moment when you think this is the worst–
just before another missile hits—
a worse-than-ever moment?
The moment when you proudly show the map of your home and
are accused of being antisemitic?
The next moment, your home no longer exists.
The next moment, your two best friends are killed.
The next moment, a sister and her entire family are killed.
The next moment, you remember a moment with your friends and cry
The next moment, you remember your home and cry
The next moment, you hear your neighbor in the next tent
crying over his slain son.
The next moment, you ask God, Will you ever live a moment of relief again?
Will you cry?
The moment when you unzip your chest and hand your heavy heart to God
is just before the fiery explosion from Al Fajr massacre eats your son’s skin.
The next moment, you lean against the remains of a wall and cry.
The next moment, they hit the remains of the wall.
They even hate the remains.
No walls are left in the city to cry on.
You lean on your poem.
Another moment, new missiles, new explosions, a new massacre.
Another friend, neighbor, son, house was killed.
The last wall I leaned on, in the poem, was destroyed.
You can support Basman and his brother, the playwright Bassem El Dirawi, through this GoFundMe.
Basman Aldirawi (also published as Basman Derawi) is a physiotherapist and a graduate of Al-Azhar University in Gaza in 2010. Inspired by an interest in music, movies, and people with special needs, he contributes dozens of stories to the online platform We Are Not Numbers.