Rafeket (Cyclamen Flower in Hebrew)

Penumbra, darkness.

Incandescent lights in the corridors

four walls and a steel door

underground, outside no one hears us

a stench of shit, piss and body odour sticks to the air.

When was the last time I walked outside in the fresh air? 

when was the last time I have seen sunlight?

When was the last time I seen my family? 

My wife, my children?

What have I done to be here?

My body deteriorating 

leaving me, slowly

losing my words, my memories,

time passes, 

one minute indistinguishable from another

What have I done to be here?

Does my family know that I am here?

Are they still alive?  

A camera watches over me

my lungs struggle to breathe 

darkness envolved by electric lights

darkness spoken by the guards

darkness in my mind

What have I done to be here?

I can’t hear my own voice, 

as ghosts

we are not allowed to talk to each other.

What have I done?

They are animals.

Terrorists. 

They have no right to be in our own land.

We are different, we don’t want them here, they are not us.

We got thousands of years of religion, sacred books,

ceremonies, strong leaders, we know how to survive,

we were scattered around the world and we came back,

we got advanced technology, powerful weapons,

we are armed and this is now our land,

but these are animals, 

they need to be securely put away, 

disappeared from their own,

destroyed, beaten until they give up, 

they need to be taught, that is not theirs, that they are nothing,

that they have no future, 

that they should leave and never come back.

Don’t look at me, on the ground, don’t talk,

no one cares about you.

Hour after hour, day after day,

this is my job,

this is not an underground jail,

they are here

for their own security.

4.00 PM. I finish my shift and see the early afternoon sun. 

I am going home.  My wife and daughter are waiting.

Lying on the silent ground

I daydream of my children and my wife.

What have I done to be here? 

Where I am? 

The walls tell me there are others with me. 

Who are they? Do I know them? 

Are they my sisters, my brothers?

Why do they do this to me, to us?

I see no colours in this light, in this darkness

but I still remember the terracota pot next to the east side window,

its luscious soil,  its feathery roots, its delicate winter flowers

year after year. 

Will I ever be out of here?

Will I hug my children, my wife, my elders?

Will I be out in the sun and feel the wind again?

11 November 2025

Palestine, the genocide that never ends.