Our prayers are with the children of Gaza who suffered and died during Israel's Operation "Cast Lead" and Operation "Pillar of Fire" (also known euphemistically as "Pillar of Clouds" and "Pillar of Defense"). I was communicating with a young Gazan girl during the early stages of Operation "Pillar of Fire" and she became so terrified of the thunderous explosions that she was unable to speak. Israel's "Pillar of Fire" left Gaza in flames, and many babies and children charred corpses. Now Israel's latest offensive, dubbed Operation "Protective Edge" or "Defensive Edge," threatens Gaza with more collective punishment, carnage, suffering and death. More than half of Gaza's 1.8 million residents are children, so military operations there are bound to end in the deaths of innocents.Two angels living on the brink of hell, with the rubble of Gaza behind them, thanks to the governments of Israel, the United States and Great Britain.

I, too, have a dream ...that one day Jews and Christianswill see me as I am:a small child, lonely and afraid,staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,knowing I did nothingto deserve their enmity. The Child Poets of Gaza

Christians may want to consider the ethical questions What does the Bible say? What would Jesus do? Would Jesus Christ have endorsed racism, apartheid and ethnic cleansing when the victims include millions of women and children in Gaza, the Occupied Territories and refugee camps in Jordan, Lebanon and other Middle Eastern nations?

I lived as best I could, and then I died.Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

by Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Frail envelope of flesh,lying cold on the surgeons tablewith anguished eyeslike your mothers eyesand a heartbeat weak, unstable ...

Frail crucible of dust,brief flower come to thisyour tiny handin your mothers handfor a last bewildered kiss ...

Brief mayfly of a child,to live two artless years!Now your mothers lipsseal up your lipsfrom the Deluge of her tears ...

If you are unfamiliar with the real history of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, or have been told that Israel is "only defending itself," please read Albert Einstein's 1948 letter to the New York Times,then click your browser's "back" button to return to this page. If you want to understand how the theft of Palestinian land relates to Israel's military offensives against Gaza, please click here Amud Annan "Pillar of Fire." If you want to hear the opinion of the former U.S. president and Nobel Peace Prize laureate who negotiated peace talks between Israel and Palestinians, please click here Jimmy Carter: "Israeli policy is to confiscate Palestinian territory." You may also want to read and consider Israeli Prime Ministers who were Terrorists and Does Israel Really Want Peace?

I'm Your Childby Israa Thiab

I want to live, I want to loveIf you let me dear sirI want to play, I want to learnLook at me, I know you care

Look at me... For I'm flesh as much as you arefor I have a heart... I laugh... I cryLook at me dear sir, look into my eyes I dare youand tell me how I deserve to die

I'm not a chess piece, I'm a childI'm not a number, I'm a childI'm not a lab rat, I'm a childLook at me dear sir ... I'm YOUR child

Israa Thiab is a Palestinian refugee by birth, holding Jordanian nationality. She was born to a political activist father, and is adamant that she will continue to fight her father's fight against injustice and oppression not only for Palestinians but on a global level.

shellingshellingshellingbarren land,fruitless trees,wingless birds,eclipsed sun,miniscule corpses,entombed hopes,decapitated present,castrated futuredeath ghostdeath's specter &global silence

The oppressed can but pursue suitable tracksLearning to heed the lessons of awesome warBut will the mighty listen to reasons voiceThat justice will accomplish the peace of Rome?Or will consciences dictates be inexorably ignoredAs wars clouds hover over cultures great cradle?And yet we do not harbor the odium of hatredBut pray that peace can still be humanitys finest hour . . .Khaled Nusseibeh

Distant lightby Walid Khazindar, a poet born in Gaza Cityloose translation by Michael R. Burch

Bitterly cold,winter clings to the naked trees.If only you would free the bright sparrowsfrom the tips of your fingersand release a smilethat shy, tentative smilefrom the imprisoned anguish I see.Sing! Can we not singas if we were warm, hand-in-hand,shielded by shade from a glaring sun?Can you not always remain this way,stoking the fire, more beautiful than necessary, and silent?Darkness increases; we must remain vigilantand this distant light is our only consolationthis imperiled flame, which from the beginninghas been flickering,in danger of going out.Come to me, closer and closer.I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours.And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.

Walid Khazindar was born in 1950 in Gaza City. He is considered one of the best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.I had a dream of Jesus!Mama, his eyes were so kind!But behind him I saw a billion Christianshissing "You're nothing!," so blind.The Child Poets of Gaza

For a Child of Gaza, with Butterfliesby Michael R. Burch

Where does the butterfly gowhen lightning rails when thunder howlswhen hailstones scream while winter scowlsand nights compound dark frosts with snow?Where does the butterfly go?

Where does the rose hide its bloomwhen night descends oblique and chillbeyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,where does the butterfly go?

And where shall the spirit fleewhen life is harsh, too harsh to face,and hope is lost without a trace?Oh, when the light of life runs low,where does the butterfly go?

For two hands, of stone and of thymeI dedicate this song. For Ahmad, forgotten between two butterfliesThe clouds are gone and have left me homeless, andThe mountains have flung their mantles and concealed meFrom the oozing old wound to the contours of the land I descend, andThe year marked the separation of the sea from the cities of ash, andI was aloneAgain aloneO alone? And AhmadBetween two bullets was the exile of the seaA camp grows and gives birth to fighters and to thymeAnd an arm becomes strong in forgetfulnessMemory comes from trains that have left andPlatforms that are empty of welcome and of jasmineIn cars, in the landscape of the sea, in the intimate nights of prison cellsIn quick liaisons and in the search for truth wasThe discovery of selfIn every thing, Ahmad found his oppositeFor twenty years he was askingFor twenty years he was wanderingFor twenty years, and for moments only, his mother gave him birthIn a vessel of banana leavesAnd departedHe seeks an identity and is struck by the volcanoThe clouds are gone and have left me homeless, andThe mountains have flung their mantles and concealed meI am Ahmad the Arab, he saidI am the bullets, the oranges and the memory

When the hurricane swirled and spread its delugeof dark evilonto the good green land'they' gloated. The western skiesreverberated with joyous accounts:"The Tree has fallen !The great trunk is smashed! The hurricane leaves no life in the Tree!"

Had the Tree really fallen?Never! Not with our red streams flowing forever,not while the wine of our thorn limbsfed the thirsty roots,Arab roots alivetunneling deep, deep, into the land!

When the Tree rises up, the branchesshall flourish green and fresh in the sunthe laughter of the Tree shall leafbeneath the sunand birds shall returnUndoubtedly, the birds shall return.The birds shall return.

Look at meI would love to write poetry about love,Paint rainbows and butterflies,Smell the scent of pink rose buds,And dance;Dance with the melody of jubilant bluebirds

I would love to close my eyes and see children smilingNo guns pointing at their headsTell them stories of lily-like fairies in far-away landsNot of bullets shrieking . . . of missiles explodingButHow can I?

There is a dagger in my heartI am hurtingHurtingI bleed,I cringeI cry

HUMANITY, WHERE ARE YOU?I am being slaughteredUnder your watchful eyesI am cold . . . cold . . . coldI cringeI cry

Humanity, where are you?Why do you turn your face away?Why do you keep looking the other way?I am hereLanguishingIn Gaza's alleywaysHumanity, where are you?Look at meSee me

I am hereSighingIn Gaza's alleywaysI cringeI cry

Humanity,Enough turning the other way !Turning a deaf earTurning a blind eyeWhile I,and oh ! my poor childrenDie

Once upon a crime,the nighthijacked the face of my homeland.The next day,the spring was pronounced dead.My bloodlost its way rivuletting through sand.I was not courageous enoughto declarethe theft of my skin;It was stretched by loathsome handsto create a new face for an old drum.There . . .sat my anxiety on the banks of pain,washing my punctured voice,asking mehow would I . . .fish for my poems crumbs in a mine field?What could I say?For . . .I had lost the dawn in the market,my mouth was stuffedwith the sweat of my exile,nothing of me remainedbutmy few half-living fingersexhuming the guts of lines,a nose . . .striving hard to find its way home,and a pair of eyes,that looked but could not seeanyof the absent loved ones,who used to be there for me.My pulse was swinging,documenting my name,alongside others hangingon the verge of plight.My loaf was naked.I was armed only with a prayer.A child beneath the rubbleScreamed, calling my nameMama . . . Please . . .tell them not to execute my kite.I saw the carnage . . . saw girls' dreaming headsblown to red atoms, and their dreams with them . . .

saw babies liquefied in burning bedsas, horrified, I heard their murderers phlegm . . .

I saw my mother stitch my shrouds black hem,for in that moment I was one of them . . .

I saw our Fathers eyes grow hard and bleakto see frail roses severed at the stem . . .

How could I fail to speak?

I Pray Tonightby Michael R. Burch

for the children of Gazaand their mothers

I pray tonightthe starry Lightmightsurround you.

I prayby daythat, come what may,no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere tomorrowan end to your sorrow.May angels' white choralessing, and astound you

Somethingby Michael R. Burch

for the mothers and children of Gaza

Something inescapable is lostlost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of starsimmeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gonegone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grassand remembrance.

Something unforgettable is pastblown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,and finality has swept into a corner where it liesin dust and cobwebs and silence.

Mothers Smileby Michael R. Burch

for the mothers of Gazaand their children

There never was a fonder smilethan mothers smile, no softer touchthan mothers touch. So sleep awhileand know she loves you more than much.

So more than much, much more than all.Though tender words, these do not speakof love at all, nor how we falland mothers there, nor how we reachfrom nightmares in the ticking nightand she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger backthan fathers back, that held our weightand lifted us, when we were small,and bore us till we reached the gate,then held our hands that first bright miletill we could run, and did, and flew.But, oh, a mothers tender smilewill leap and follow after you!

Labor Painsby Fadwa Tuqan

The wind blows the pollen in the nightthrough ruins of fields and homes.Earth shivers with love,with the pain of giving birth,but the conqueror wants us to believestories of submission and surrender.

O Arab Aurora!Tell the usurper of our landthat childbirth is a force unknown to him,the pain of a mothers body,that the scarred landinaugurates lifeat the moment of dawnwhen the rose of bloodblooms on the wound.

Hadeel's Songby Hanan Ashrawi

Some words are hard to pronounceHe-li-cop-ter is most vexing(A-pa-che or Co-bra is impossible)But how it can stand still in the skyI cannot understandWhat holds it upWhat bears its weight(Not clouds, I know)It sends a flashing lightso smoothIt makes a deafening soundThe house shakes(There are holes in the wall by my bed)Flash-boom-light-soundAnd I have a hard time sleeping(I felt ashamed when I wet my bed, but no one scolded me).

Planea word much easier to sayIt flies,tayyara,My mother told meA word must have a meaningA name must have a meaningLike mine,(Hadeel, the cooing of the dove)Tanks, though, make a different soundThey shudder when they shootDabbabehis a heavy wordAs heavy as its meaning.

Hadeelthe doveshe coosTayyarashe fliesDabbabehshe crawlsMy Mothershe criesAnd cries and criesMy BrotherRamihe liesDEADAnd lies and lies, his eyesClosed.Hit by a bullet in the head(bullet is a female leadrasasashe kills,my pencil is a male leadrasashe writes)Whats the difference between a shell and a bullet?(Whats five-hundred-milli-meter-Or eight-hundred-milli-meter-shell?)Numbers are more vexing than wordsI count to ten, then ten-and-one, ten-and-twoBut what happens after ten-and-ten,How should I know?Rami, my brother, was oneOf hundreds killedThey say thousands are hurt,But which is moreA hundred or a thousand (miyyehoralf)I cannot tellSo bigso largeso hugeToo many, too much.

PalestineFalasteenIm used to,Its not so hard to say,It means were hereto stayEven though the place is hardOn kids and mothers tooFor soldiers shootAnd airplanes shellAnd tanks boomAnd tear gas makes you cry(Though I dont think its tear gas that makes my mother cry)Id better go and hug herSit in her lap a whileTouch her face (my fingers wet)Look in her eyesUntil I see myself againA girl within her mothers sight.

If words have meaning, Mama,What is Is-ra-el?What does a word meanif it is mixedwith anotherIf all soldiers, tanks, planes and guns areIs-ra-el-iWhat are they doing hereIn a place I knowIn a word I know(Palestine)In a life that I no longer know?

Excerpts from Under Siegeby Mahmoud Darwishtranslated by Marjolijn De Jager

Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of timeClose to the gardens of broken shadows,We do what prisoners do,And what the jobless do:We cultivate hope.

A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligentFor we closely watch the hour of victory:No night in our night lit up by the shellingOur enemies are watchful and light the light for usIn the darkness of cellars.

Here there is no "I".Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.

You who stand in the doorway, come in,Drink Arabic coffee with usAnd you will sense that you are men like usYou who stand in the doorways of housesCome out of our morningtimes,We shall feel reassured to beMen like you!

When the planes disappear, the white, white dovesFly off and wash the cheeks of heavenWith unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possessionOf the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white dovesFly off. Ah, if only the skyWere real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].

Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protectingThe sky from collapse. Behind the hedge of steelSoldiers pissunder the watchful eye of a tankAnd the autumnal day ends its golden wandering inA street as wide as a church after Sunday mass . . .

[To a killer] If you had contemplated the victims faceAnd thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in theGas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifleAnd you would have changed your mind: this is not the wayto find ones identity again.

The siege is a waiting periodWaiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.

Alone, we are alone as far down as the sedimentWere it not for the visits of the rainbows.

We have brothers behind this expanse.Excellent brothers. They love us. They watch us and weep.Then, in secret, they tell each other:"Ah! if this siege had been declared . . . " They do not finish their sentence:"Dont abandon us, dont leave us."

Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day.And ten wounded.And twenty homes.And fifty olive trees . . .Added to this the structural flaw thatWill arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.

Oh watchmen! Are you not wearyOf lying in wait for the light in our saltAnd of the incandescence of the rose in our woundAre you not weary, oh watchmen? ...

Greetings to the one who shares my glass with meIn the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces:Greetings to my apparition.

My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me,A soothing grave in the shade of oak treesA marble epitaph of timeAnd always I anticipate them at the funeral:Who then has died . . . who?

We should not justify suicide bombers.We are against the suicide bombings, but we must understand what drives these young people to such actions.They want to liberate themselves from such a dark life.It is not ideological, it is despair . . . We have to understandnot justifywhat gives rise to this tragedy.It's not because they're looking for beautiful virgins in heaven, as Orientalists portray it. Palestinian people are in love with life.If we give them hopea political solutionthey'll stop killing themselves.Mahmoud Darwish

Hidden dimensionsby Nahida Izzat

My first son HassanWas born on April the 9th

You might thinkSo what why are you saying itWith such a gloomy tuneWhat is wrong with the 9th of April?

You have to be a PalestinianTo understandFor on the 9th of April 1948The massacre of Deir YassinTook placeWhere every man women and childOf that peaceful farming villageWas killed in cold bloodNo one survivedExcept thoseWho pretended to be dead

As we celebrate the birth of a newbornWith joyWe mourn and grieveLost loved ones

In our midstNothing becomes insularNothing is disjointedNo single colours

The fabric of our livesMakes the most amazing tapestry

If you hold it backwardsLooking at the wrong sideYoull see a mirror imageOf shades of a blurred pictureWith loops . . . knots and fraying threadIf you turn it overIt looks much neaterBut still you cant actually seeThe full pictureOnly colours and shadows

But hey . . . take a little timeAnd walk backwardsFurther backLook at the tapestryFrom a distance

You will be amazedAt its outstanding beautyAll these murky shadesThat didnt make sense to youEven disturbed youWhen you were near

From afarThese dark shadowsAre precisely what makes this pieceSo uniqueSo spectacular

These unfathomable huesAre what give our life portraitIts depthAnd hidden dimensions

Since that day of 1948Many . . . many babies were bornOn April the 9th

Our joys are always stainedWith hints of sorrow

Our sadness is always colouredWith hues of hope

Without whichThe tapestry of our livesWill never be completeWont be as richOr as beautiful

Dont waste much timeStaring at the wrong side with furyTurn it over . . .walk further back . . . and feel the glory

Dead Lifeby Olfa Philo

Hey you, hurrying off to the doctor in case of flu or toothache,what if you suffered like the people of Gaza from a chronic heartache?

Hey you, your kids have a lot of toys to play with and change their moods,but kids like them in Gaza are being robbed of their innocent moments of childhood!

Hey you, your kids are lucky enjoying food, shelter and comfy beds,but parents in Gaza are traumatized by their kids' exploded stomachs and heads!

Hey you, you're showing off your new brand-name clothes to your peers?For their lifelong 'red uniforms', kids of Gaza are drenched in tears!

Hey you, you're complaining every now and then about a lack of fun?What if your ears were deafened by the noise of rockets and guns!

Hey you, you shout and swear if your kids fall or bleed somewhere?People of Gaza have been bleeding in silence for decades, as if No one doescare!

Hey you, you feel humiliated if you don't celebrate your birthday every year with friends, candles and a cake?People of Gaza have only wakes and are burning candles daily for their land's sake!

Hey you, you listen to music to calm down and release your stress?People of Gaza have no other melody but the melancholic lyric of death!

Hey you, you're enraged because your lover didn't call you on the phone?People of Gaza can only express their displeasure with a stone!

Hey you, you're reluctant to see horrible pictures of atrocities and scattered body parts?Will you survive a minute if your eyes witness your family members literally falling apart?

Hey you, you're enjoying beer, marijuana and secret dating on Twitter and Facebook?Did you also swallow all the anesthetizing pills and poisoned hooks?

Hey you, you're hypnotized by the wide range of drama, thriller, soccer and porn TV channels?Why don't you become a pioneer in launching soul-uplifting, intelligence-boosting and peace-promoting panels?

Hey you, do you feel frustrated when you miss a party or a famous star's show?What if you lived a life where the sun never rises to melt the years of snow?

Hey you over there, proud of having two feet not four,What makes you feel superior,if your brain is (b)locked,your tongue is tied andyour heart is congealed to the core?