habayib street theater

click on photo to enlarge



The war continues silent while we sleep.
It is called occupation, and is no news.
While we dream of floating and corridors
our automatic weapons are aimed at children
who if they grow up will grow up learning
obedience means surrender.
While we breathe the deep soft breath of sleep,
our soldiers prod the intimate places
of those we defeat each day, each day.
While our genitals moisten and thicken
at regular intervals though the night,
our victory hovers with whirling blades
and marching feet to press its barriers
inward until the defeated have
no victory left, no triumph, no private
place that does not acknowledge
our ownership over their freedom.

With occupation, we win in our sleep.
In our sleep the checkpoints make them wait
and by their waiting we win.
In our sleep the curfew makes them huddle
and by their huddle we win.
In our sleep the fathers are beaten and cowed
and by their beating we win.
We sleep, we win, they lose, they lose,
the weapons and tools we loose in our sleep
will grind them down, will grind them down,
they break, they kneel, but still our tools
will rasp and file and grate and scrape
until they are faceless, until they are blades.
And when their edges are sharp enough
they will turn on us; and finally then,
too late, we may wake.

edward mast


graffiti on doorframe and windowframes:

Occupation is not liberation.

Occupation loses hearts and minds.

a homeland searching for a place

The lie has one leg, the truth has two.

We are the roots of our land.

the blood-stained sun is presiding in the prisons

a homeland without a face

the moon rises over confiscated childhood

in the desert is no home
the walls of home are withered

I have given you a land for which you did not work; you live in cities you did not build; you eat from vineyards and olive groves you did not plant.
Joshua 24:13

The tree is not dying, but only sleeping.

Come home, my friend. We're waiting for you.

The orange was dried-up and shrivelled.

It's the sound of your own heart. You can hear it when you press your chest to the ground.

the sun paces the sky like a trapped animal

we are building the future a desert of salt
we are building a future of sand


palestine solidarity committee/ism-seattle



photos by Ken Dean and others

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