“If I Survive I Will Still Die”: Two Poems by Lubna Ahmed
Lubna Ahmed is a Palestinian student who lives in the Gaza Strip. She likes to write in English, and is passionate about writing poetry. “I pray to God day and night that I can become a memorable poet, because I want to be remembered for having done something good in my life,” she says. She aspires to become a translator and dreams of earning a master’s degree at a university in Britain.
Artwork by Sohail Salem.
These poems appear in Tell It to the Sky, the Gaza Poets Society’s third anthology. Get your copy.
Gaza in My Eyes
I see Gaza on the beach,
where sand is touched
gently by the sea,
where children's laughter fills long summer days,
where the waves bring back
hymns of hope,
holding stories of life from death.
I see Gaza in the white seagulls
that fly freely in the morning,
visiting distant places and spreading
songs of love and lament,
not caring how many times the wind blows them
off course. At twilight they always return,
singing about home.
I see Gaza in the root of the olive tree,
steadfast against heavy storms,
its ancient sinews holding firm,
defying roaring winds.
I see Gaza in a small fishing boat,
sitting bravely in the middle of a furious sea,
fighting back darkness and
reporting stories of survival to the seashells
listening, wide-eyed, from the beach.
I see Gaza in the purple flowers
that bloom from under
the rubble of my home,
a friend’s home,
a martyr’s home.
I see Gaza in incomplete
stories of two engaged couples.
And sometimes I see Gaza
in the eyes of a child who was born
and gone
in the same month.
I see Gaza in myself.
Can you see me?
If I Survive I Will Still Die
Despite your concentrated efforts to end me,
I have survived, randomly.
I have returned to the rubble that once was my home.
I have rolled up my sleeves like you roll the dice of death
and I have pitched a small tent.
Despite bloodshed on all sides,
despite the scent of death trapped in my nostrils,
despite the buzzing of your circling drones,
despite painful memories of losses past,
I read my book,
feed the kitties,
have a cup of coffee,
prepare something to eat.
No sooner do I take the first bite
than your bullet hits me,
unexpected as a hidden hand.
I wish you had given me a minute
to brace myself for my untimely exit,
to play my best cards,
or at least to chew my food.
Upon my sudden death,
they photograph my corpse
to show those who cared
that I died with food stuck in my mouth,
that I was still trying, still playing.
My demise is a recurring theme
in an impossible game.
I died today.
Others will die tomorrow.
Every day, we wait for Godot.
Every day, we survive to die.
And every day,
they keep rolling their dice.