(Before I share the poem – by reading June Jordan’s poem, you would imagine she’s writing about Gaza – but tragically – the brutality of our existence has been perpetuated and this was written 44 years back.)

By June Jordan

“Where is Abu Fadi,” she wailed.
“Who will bring me my loved one?”
—The New York Times, 9/20/1982

I do not wish to speak about the bulldozer and the

red dirt

not quite covering all of the arms and legs

Nor do I wish to speak about the nightlong screams

that reached

the observation posts where soldiers lounged about

Nor do I wish to speak about the woman who shoved

her baby

into the stranger’s hands before she was led away

Nor do I wish to speak about the father whose sons

were shot

through the head while they slit his own throat before

the eyes

of his wife

Nor do I wish to speak about the army that lit continuous

flares into the darkness so that the others could see

the backs of their victims lined against the wall

Nor do I wish to speak about the piled up bodies and

the stench

that will not float

Nor do I wish to speak about the nurse again and

again raped

before they murdered her on the hospital floor

Nor do I wish to speak about the rattling bullets that

did not

halt on that keening trajectory

Nor do I wish to speak about the pounding on the

doors and

the breaking of windows and the hauling of families into

the world of the dead

I do not wish to speak about the bulldozer and the

red dirt

not quite covering all of the arms and legs

because I do not wish to speak about unspeakable events

that must follow from those who dare

“to purify” a people

those who dare

“to exterminate” a people

those who dare

to describe human beings as “beasts with two legs”

those who dare

“to mop up”

“to tighten the noose”

“to step up the military pressure”

“to ring around” civilian streets with tanks

those who dare

to close the universities

to abolish the press

to kill the elected representatives

of the people who refuse to be purified

those are the ones from whom we must redeem

the words of our beginning

because I need to speak about home

I need to speak about living room

where the land is not bullied and beaten to

a tombstone

I need to speak about living room

where the talk will take place in my language

I need to speak about living room

where my children will grow without horror

I need to speak about living room where the men

of my family between the ages of six and sixty-five

are not

marched into a roundup that leads to the grave

I need to talk about living room

where I can sit without grief without wailing aloud

for my loved ones

where I must not ask where is Abu Fadi

because he will be there beside me

I need to talk about living room

because I need to talk about home

I was born a Black woman

and now

I am become a Palestinian

against the relentless laughter of evil

there is less and less living room

and where are my loved ones?

It is time to make our way home.