The Red Rose
by Kamau Bakari Abayomi
Her eyes stare soulless at sky
Five minutes ago she had just finished adding a final touch of red to the rose she drew for the boy she had crush on
She would’ve picked a living one to give if they grew here
Now red drenches her father’s shirt
He is living the horror show of carrying her 7 years young body
As he runs, ducks and shields while trying to keep her organs from spilling out the gaping hole in her belly
His son’s lifeless body he had to leave behind
Riddled by shards of metal and rock and glass
Now shredded beyond recognition
Breathing in the obliterated rocks of his homeland
He stops and crouches behind the shell of a bombed pickup truck
Charred black with smoke still rising to the sky
There was no calm before this storm
This has happened everyday in some form
The hospital is just around the corner
He tells her “We’re almost there, just hold on; hold on”
He doesn’t know she’s already gone
Or maybe he just hasn’t accepted
In the same hand that grips her shoulder
Her final act of creativity, inspiration & life
A testament to innocence & young love
Zig zag courage in the hail from guns
But his cries only become another heart-wrenching note
In the orchestra of wailing souls already echoing each other
Harmonizing hymns of the violently oppressed
He looks into her eyes and cannot protest
Deeply embedded in his pain is a subtle joy in knowing that she is now unlocked
Doctors gently pry her from his bosom
His mouth is wide with a soundless cry
Soul shocked stare from his eyes
There isn’t a human in sight that could not empathize…
There are too many humans without sight
They cheer under a multi-billion dollar shield
Too many non-humans with political stripes and gripes
But there is no justification for this
There is no political pundit puppetry that can justify this
There are no words from an “expert” in Middle East history that can justify this
There is no amount of research into “who started it” that can justify this
Agreements between colonial oppressors
Any scratches from the cornered cat, guided or misguided, do not justify this
There are no quotes from any Rabbis or Imams that can justify this
There is no Holy Book, on the planet or above it, that can justify this
And if there is, then that book is far from Holy
Little girls and boys no nothing of hate
They no nothing of oppression until you beat them
They are born already knowing how to love
They do not need to be taught this
It comes as natural as play on a sunny day
In a grassy colorful playground full of swings and monkey bars
Or in a dusty field of mines and rusty motars
Which children desire to play the most?
Which children laugh with the most spark?
Which children are the most adored?
Which children love their parents with most heart?
Which parents grieve the deepest
After seeing their child blown apart?
Israeli? Palestinian? Iranian? Lybian? Egyptian? Native American? African American? Euro-American?
Nigerian? Kenyan? European? Brazilian? Columbian? Haitian? Australian? Ukrainian? Russian? Tibetan? Chinese? Japanese? Korean? Cambodian? Indonesian? Papuan?
Whose love for the children is the most real?
Whose pain at their deaths are the most valid?
The father’s body goes limp as he faints out of consciousness.
The tightly clinched paper with his daughter’s final work of art falls to the floor
His compassionate doctor picks it up and opens to see
A stick figure masterpiece of a small Palestinian girl
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