Ja’ayus

These are the lands of my father
And his father before him
and his father.
That pile of rocks 
Has been in my family
And in my family’s sight 
Since they were pulled from the earth
By a blade 
drawn by oxen 
stronger than even my old tractor
to make a terrace
to plant this very tree
this one
Here,
touch it.
Meet my dead brother
Shot by the Israelis,
My wife who at sixty 
Stood 11 hours at a checkpoint
a good Muslim woman
forced to empty herself
on the open road
My sons who do not
Have permission to come onto my land.
Here, meet this land
The clay, the rocks,
Their fruits.
I saw father yesterday
Sweating in the olive grove 
Heard mother’s voice calling
Felt in my bones the insane yodel of my brother
Passed by grandfather’s grave
And grandmother’s
How is it possible
Others can claim this land, our land,
Take it at will
Harvest and sell our olives?
Is this not illegal?
A crime of aggression?
A theft?
To whom may I appeal
When all have forsaken me?
You there, here, touch this earth.