If I Must Starve
If I must starve,
let it be with dignity in my children’s eyes,
not with my hands tied by silence.
Let the world witness
that I did not bow to the hunger
but stood, even as the sky emptied
and the earth closed her mouth.
If I must starve,
let it be while I still cradle my child’s hope,
not as a number lost in footnotes.
Let the sea carry my name
to shores that forgot my people,
and let the wind whisper:
she fed love when bread was gone.
Buried Truths, Rising Voices:
For all the blue vests killed in Gaza
It resembled us—
that voice, grown from our anguish,
carrying pain washed clean by dew,
telling our stories with unheard tone,
as if he spoke from behind a soundproof glass.
A voice of ours, born of our wounds,
steady as dawn on Gaza’s brow,
like a sea resisting the blade of fate,
like a field of anemones in spring’s gentle glow—
Full of longing, even as it fades.
It was just a voice.
No weapon in hand, no blood on its breath,
just a melody,
perhaps borne by the wind beyond the edge,
or a whisper
that reached the hearts of those who were numb to the truth.
Why did they silence it?
Was it because it looked like us?
Because he loved the land
as if his soul were forged in her dust?
Yes, it was a voice,
a light from the heart when the sky turns black,
illuminating ruin, gifting breath to hope—
and so, they feared it
and buried it beneath the ground—without a tear, without even a tremble.
But a voice born of truth
is never laid to rest.
It lingers—
in the dust, in the wind,
in every heartbeat that dares to remember.
One day, it will rise again—
not as a whisper,
but as a storm.
Between Here and Gone
How can I press a city to my chest?
Embrace its streets, its homes, its windows?
How can my heart stretch wide,
To hold a longing this deep?
And how can I kiss its wounded ground,
Without my soul collapsing?
How do I hold a scream so deep,
In the alley where I used to play?
How do I wipe a silent tear,
On the stone where Dad once sat?
How do I bring our laughs once more,
To streets we knew?
And how do I say, I missed you so,
Without letting the heartbreak show?
How do I mend my shadow on her timeworn stone,
Where every crack once knew me as its own?
How do I walk the same streets of my young feet,
Without the weight of all that’s lost, replayed?
How do I hear the rising call to prayer,
And not let tears betray my hidden cries?
How do I say, I had to go away,
When my soul never left?
Gaza...
How can one hug hold all your scattered cries?
How can my heart survive the loss each time your name goes by?
I walk your streets, yet I’m not there,
I search your face—it’s lost.
You break inside me,
Without a reason I know why.
Gaza still stands—but not the same,
A shadow walks where once burned flame.
And the ache left within my chest
Is deeper, harsher—
A grief beyond a single death.
Shirin Abedinirad, Evocation, 2013. Land art, Central Desert, Iran. Using mirrored circles partially buried in golden sand, the work conjures the illusion of water in the desert, reflecting the sky across the dunes and transforming absence into mirage, desire, and wonder. Artwork courtesy of featured artist Shirin Abedinirad.
