"resist and dance and persist and dance"

With your eyes closed today, hear a flower open or a seed-head fall.

---

What I Will

by Suheir Hammad

I will not
dance to your war
drum. I will
not lend my soul nor
my bones to your war
drum. I will
not dance to your
beating. I know that beat.
It is lifeless. I know
intimately that skin
you are hitting. It
was alive once
hunted stolen
stretched. I will
not dance to your drummed
up war. I will not pop
spin beak for you. I
will not hate for you or
even hate you. I will
not kill for you. Especially
I will not die
for you. I will not mourn
the dead with murder nor
suicide. I will not side
with you nor dance to bombs
because everyone else is
dancing. Everyone can be
wrong. Life is a right not
collateral or casual. I
will not forget where
I come from. I
will craft my own drum. Gather my beloved
near and our chanting
will be dancing. Our
humming will be drumming. I
will not be played. I
will not lend my name
nor my rhythm to your
beat. I will dance
and resist and dance and
persist and dance.
This heartbeat is louder than
death. Your war drum ain’t
louder than this breath.

From Zaatar Diva by Suheir Hammad, author of Born Palestinian, Born Black and the Gaza Suite (Harlem River Press, 1996 and reissued by UpSet Press, 2010)

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Creative Invitation

Dear friends,

I don’t have a creative invitation today. My heart is grief and my hands are thrumming with emptiness.

I didn’t know Hani; I only knew that money we raised bought a tent for Hani and his wife Amani and their three young children, Zain, Aziz and Mohammed; bought them fruit in the manufactured famine; and e-sim cards to help him stay online to work as a designer during the Israeli genocide on Gaza. He was the husband of my friend Amer’s sister, Amani. I only knew him because he gave my friends and I the gift of accepting our help, allowing us a tiny bit of refuge, sharing funds.

Nour called to say that Hani was killed by Israel yesterday. He was targeted by a whole missile just for him, as he walked in the street. The grief in her deep ocean voice was like the echo down inside a cenote. All day, I wept between cooking and working and taking out the trash. I wept because her voice was even and didn’t waver. Her voice was tired and gentle. I wept because I can’t imagine how the children and parents in Gaza are enduring this ceaseless holocaust. Was the missile even dropped by humans, or triggered by AI? I wept because my friend Fadi wrote, “Death is imminent for all of us. Pray for us, my friend.” and yet he gets up, takes photos, used funds that you sent to help purchase a water delivery in a truck for the thirst of children.

This was Hami’s baby, in January 24, in the tent, sleeping in a laundry basket like Moses.

Rest in Peace, Hani. May your three babies be safe.

I do, after all, have a creative invitation to offer.

Write a sentence of what you refuse, and what you stand for, what you will protect.

Thank you.