Jesus Never Visited Gaza

 

Jesus Never Visited Gaza

 

 

 

We stood, reciting the names of the dead.

A non-Jewish Jew,

I violated communal norms.

 

Forgive me.

I needed to share my grief with someone.  

I needed to unburden myself with a siren

song.

 

The list of the dead dragged on:

families grouped together,

seeking shelter in each other’s

arms, just as they had done when the bombs

pummelled their houses into shards.

 

Everyone was embarrassed.

Pronunciations were odd.

Arabic articles mixed with Hebrew and British dictions.

 

I asked myself why we mourn

and for whom we mourn

when the dead are gone.

 

The God I don’t believe

—the God I disagree with—

whispered in my ear:

we mourn our complicity,

we mourn to wipe from our hands

the creature comforts—

tax-funded wars

warm and cozy homes—

the guilt, soaked in blood.

 

The more we wash, the more putrid our wounds become.

They fester in the sun

of war’s delirium.

 

Politics repeats itself

like American drones in lands they don’t belong.

 

Jesus said that the dead should bury the dead.

He never visited Gaza.

What are you looking for?