Rage simmers beneath the surface, ready to boil at the slightest provocation:
grown men shout, honk, remark, slur, grab, point, gesture, ask,
wild dogs threaten with growls and barks,
soldiers aim their guns,
anger is explained away, ignoring its roots:
words like gang, criminal, dangerous, are tossed around like a ball between friends, or
throwing a dog a bone.
Words like refugees, soldiers, and raids are carefully omitted.
A nation is under occupation.
My body is under occupation.
I lose track of my breath,
catch energy from the men on the street, men in their cars, like a broken fishing net with all caught suffocating silently, desperately,
suck it in from soldiers at checkpoints, police on the road, settlers ripping ancient olive trees from the land.
The quality of being livid builds with each interaction,
a survival response mechanism, an unmet need.
I can’t reconcile my outrages, but they are beginning to blur:
a woman living under occupation,
a Jew in Palestine.
In the end it’s all one,
cause for becoming a warrior.