11 November, 2023
I do not live in Palestine nor in Israel, nor am I Palestinian, Israeli, Arab, Muslim, Jew or Christian.
Nor am I active duty military, a veteran, or a medic.
I cannot know what it is like to be you.
Here is what I do know.
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I am a former child refugee.
We fled post-war Communist Vietnam when I was two.
What is happening in Gaza
Is igniting body echoes
Of cratered landscapes across my mother land.
My mother's land.
My mother's hands
That hold the injustices
Of one hundred thousand dollar bombs
Dropped out of war planes
That cost one hundred million dollars
Onto people
Who earn less than a dollar a day.
“At least we’re not getting bombs dropped on us anymore.”
Dad would say, softly.
In response to my childhood protests
Of carrying a heavy school bag on my own
Of taking care of my little sister when I wanted to play instead.
I never understood his strange gratitude
For the absence of life threat.
Distorted by experiences unspoken that seek life,
Like tender tendrils of jungle vines, despite Agent Orange.
Over the last few weeks,
As life has given my partner and I
The usual ups and downs
Of life in the first world, I’ve started responding, softly:
“At least we’re not getting bombs dropped on us anymore.”
It is strange to feel a kinship with people on the other side of world.
Because of bombs.
And bittersweet.
Because we are safe now
And you are not.
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