Tag: Anya Achtenberg

For Dr. Refaat Alareer 

If you must die
then I must live
to begin where you left off, although
you have never truly ceased.

Your poems journey across the world,
echo in my mind,
gather like a family’s embrace.
Your lessons visit me each night,
an alarm that stirs the soul,
reminding me to live,
always, and without fail.

I must live
to trace your steps,
stand where your footprints lie.
I must read in cafés and cars,
on bustling streets,
amidst the market stalls.
I must read at home and in the university —
just as you so often did.
I must meet you in the pages of your books —
Gaza Writes Back. Gaza Unsilenced.

No hesitation, I must live
to cling to the tail of a paper kite
soaring across the world,
boundless and free, no walls to hinder,
no soldier to halt my flight.
I fly with a pen in my hand as my weapon,
just as you did.
On my back I carry a bag
filled with your poems,
inked on paper, so true.

I must soar
to scatter the fragrance of your verses from the sky.
Your words descend, colorful blossoms upon the earth.
One drifts to a child with a paper kite in hand.
The child glimpses the brilliance you release
and is struck, as I was,
with a fever of love for poetry and art —
caught by it, just as I was.

I will live
to answer that little one’s questions,
to plant the seeds of your verses,
scatter the nectar of your steps,
and one day stand before you in the sky.
I will carry your trust on the wings of a plane,
deliver your message to all those children
who will be struck with love for poetry,
the children who tomorrow will rise,
successors to Refaat in poetry and letters.

I must live
to prosecute those who sentenced your art to death,
halted its rightful course
and sought to crush the scent of safety
your verses breathed into the hearts of your readers.
I must stand before your words,
draw hope there —
a hope I fear losing
as I lost you.

I must do my work
so you may rest in peace —
you’ve left your legacy in the right hands.
Your inheritance, divided justly, multiplies
and even strangers tremble at the weight of its value.

I will live
to mourn the tale of the great father,
to close the notebooks of barren grief,
to ignite a revolution of true poetry
and sound the warning of a searing fire,
to bring to the world the essence of your verses
and tear down the veil of Zionism,
as you once desired.

I can still imagine you there — in the university.
I must tell you how everyone yearned for your counsel,
how they hesitated to mourn you.
The students flocked to the Faculty of Arts
at the mere mention of your name in the news,
the weight of your death
pressed upon them,
even as they tried not to hear it.

I must craft endless poems
from the deepest part of my sea,
tuck them away in my travel bag
along with countless messages
from all who love you.
I will keep them safe for you
until we can meet.

I must live
to write a new story.

Read tributes to Dr. Refaat.