A simple Palestinian country woman bent over her youthful dead daughter at the hospital, keening:
Let the moon rise and let me be laid instead
Rise my moon rise
This simple lament pierced my heart. It drew my attention to what the mourners were saying. Many of them were simple folk and hard working countrymen and women who lived tuned to the land and the seasons. The death of their children, sometimes all of them, or relatives and the death of their orchards, trees and animals left them bereft beyond consolation and beyond redemption. The old folk in particular who were left behind wailed their toothless grief bending helplessly and pitifully over the shattered heaps of their flattened unrecognizable homes. In some cases entire families and extended families were wiped out, 4-30 members.
The Lament of the Bereaved Old Men and Women
of Gaza
They killed my sons
They killed my daughters
Where Shall I go
Weinarouh
They killed my sisters
They killed my brothers
Where Shall I go
Wenarouh
They wrecked my home
They destroyed my shelter
Where shall I go
Werinarouh
They burnt my olives
They blazed my orchard
Where shall I go
Weinarouh
They killed my donkey
They blasted my chickens
Where shall I go
Weinarouh
I am homeless
I am landless
Where shall I go
Weinarouh
Who will open their door for me
They have no doors
They have no windows
Where shall I go
Weinarouh
Amin says he has no hope that oeople in Europe will ever understand or sympathize with the Palestinian tragedy
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