By Tara Mahajan
What do two 15-year-old girls have in common,
3,000 miles apart?
One watches the suffering on a screen,
The other consoles her dead heart.
We wake up to the same sun,
To me, it marks inception.
To her, it only illuminates the scorched earth,
So outlying of emancipation.
She doesn't know
Area A from Area B.
She doesn't know
About the tunnels beneath the olive tree.
She spells names on rubble—
Mahmoud and Ghada.
What good would it bring?
Another Intifada?
She sees the children throw rocks at a tank—
To them, it took their fathers.
She sees their big brothers make guns with pipes—
To them, it's grain to be garnered.
She doesn't know who listens when she prays,
Excuse her novelty.
She doesn't know
Whether it is Allah or Yahweh that will set her free.
We fall asleep to the same moon,
To me, it's simply the end.
To her, it is a constant reminder
Of the ceaseless impend.
What do two 15-year-old girls have in common,
3,000 miles apart?
I know something's wrong,
But I don't know where to start.
So when she screams and shouts,
And hawks and cries,
I follow.
When she refuses to be collateral damage
Of a war of truths and lies,
I bellow.
When she holds on to hope,
Hope that is seemingly hollow,
I hope you hear—
Our echo.