The phone rings.
I don’t know who is calling,
but the caller knows my name.
The caller introduces himself.
“We don’t want to kill you.
Leave the house now.”
We have 2 minutes.
That’s 120 seconds from the time Aaron hangs up.
Did I hear him well?
I can’t tell
because
My ears and mind are still reeling from the
afternoon bombings in the city.
An uncle, an aunt, and a niece must have died, I am told.
I may find out tomorrow, if I am still alive.
They follow the Geneva convention.
A warning before they bomb my house
absolves them of all their doings
even if the people they claim to be
residing in my building aren’t really living here.
There’s no one here.
Except my family. And my children.
“Leave now. Go somewhere.”
Where would one go to?
Narrow alleys packed with human bodies —
Alive and dead.
The dead have reached their destination.
The ones who are alive? —
They all are pretending to go somewhere.
We are in a prison surrounded by the sea
and all our borders are closed.
We are worthless human beings here
except on occasional days
when we serve as political pawns.
“Leave now.”
It doesn’t matter if you have children.
It doesn’t matter if 120 seconds isn’t long enough
to pack your unfinished meal
or your half-knitted blanket,
or to find your son’s favorite toy
or your daughter’s certificates
or your memory card with all your photos.
It doesn’t matter what dreams you had yesterday.
It doesn’t matter where your next meal would come from.
As long as we can prove we warned you
in Arabic before we bombed you,
It doesn’t really matter who you are.
“Just leave now.”
