Hiraeth(n.) A homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the grief for the lost places of your past.The Israeli-Palestinian region has been in a constant state of turmoil since the inception of the Israeli State in 1948. Millions have been displaced, thousands murdered and hundreds continue to die at the borders every day. In this particular poem, I alternate between the Palestinian and Israeli points of view to shed light on their common grief.No matter that our sun risesOn barbed wire and concrete wallsNo matter that our sun roseOn Aushwitz gates and burnished namesNo matter that our religion equalsidentity at checkpointsNo matter that our religion equaledidentity at BordersNo matter that in seventy years of settlementsHome has disappearedNo matter that for hundreds before the seventyHome was just a wordNo matter that my grandfatherwas shot in JerusalemNo matter that my grandmothernever reached JerusalemNo matter that raining bulletsdon’t pick sidesNo matter that all our woundedbleed red brightBecause,No matter what we’ve lostYou and I are the same.
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About the writer
Tanisha Tekriwal. Tanisha Tekriwal is a reading and writing enthusiast. She is a student at Welham Girls' School, India and is the Editor-in-Chief of her school's literary magazine, the Chrysalis. Tanisha is also on the Editorial Boards of three other publications of her school. Tanisha enjoys art, music and literature and is passionate about history and politics as well.
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