WE DESERVE A BETTER DEATH

We deserve a better death.
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV.
Our photos, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade
to our graves.
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.

TO GHASSAN KANAFANI

Never thought that returning to Haifa
would lead to a bloody path.
Lakes were not full of water,
but mines.
When you opened the door to your car,
it wasn’t the door to Said’s house.
The old Polish Jew Miriam
didn’t show up to let you into
your stolen home.
Death swallowed you and Lamees
down into its deep valley.
Shrapnel was the tattoo
marking your bodies
for the ghetto
of the Dead.

DISPLACED

In memory of Edward Said

I am neither in nor out.
I am in between.
I am not part of anything.
I am a shadow of something.
At best,
I am a thing that
does not really
exist.
I am weightless,
a speck of time
in Gaza.
But I will remain
where I am.

A Request
After Refaat Alareer

If I am going to die,
let it be a clean death.
No rubble over my corpse,
no broken dishes or glasses,
and not many cuts in my head or chest.
Leave my ironed untouched jackets
and pants in the closet,
so I may wear some of them again
at the funeral.

After Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed in a tent,
looking for water and diapers for kids;
destroyed by bombs;
a generation under the rubble
of their bombed houses;
I saw the best brains of my generation
protruding from their slashed heads.

Rescue Plane

I wish I had a rescue plane
to fly over Gaza
to drop wheat flour and tea bags,
tomatoes and cucumbers,
to remove the rubble of the houses,
to retrieve the corpses of my loved ones.
I wish for a second rescue plane
to drop flowers for children—
the ones still alive—to plant
on the graves of their parents and siblings
in the streets or schoolyards.
The wish behind the wish?
I wish there were no planes at all.
I wish there were no war.
I wish we never had to wish.

For a Moment

Her small body rides in my arms
as I run to the hospital.
There is no electricity
and the inner hallways are
a forest lined with cots.
The girl I carry
is dead,
I know that.
The pressure of the explosion
tore apart her thin veins.
I know she is dead,
but everyone who sees us
runs after us.
You are alive
for a moment,
when living people
run after you.

I leave the door to my room open, so the words in my books,
the titles, and names of authors and publishers,
could flee when they hear the bombs.

He left the house to buy some bread for his kids.
News of his death made it home,
but not the bread.
No bread.
Death sits to eat whoever remains of the kids.
No need for a table, no need for bread.”

My son asks me whether,
when we return to Gaza,
I could get him a puppy.
I say, “I promise, if we can find any.”

“Man’s mind may be likened to a garden, which may be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run wild; but whether cultivated or neglected, it must, and will, bring forth.

If no useful seeds are put into it, then an abundance of useless weed-seeds will fall
therein, and will continue to produce their kind.

Just as a gardener cultivates his plot, keeping it free from weeds, and growing the flowers and fruits which he requires, so may a man tend the garden of his mind, weeding out all the wrong, useless, and impure thoughts, and cultivating toward perfection the flowers and fruits of right, useful, and pure thoughts. By pursuing this process, a man sooner or later discovers that he is the master-gardener of his soul, the director of his life. He also reveals, within himself, the laws of thought, and understands, with ever-increasing accuracy, how the thought-forces and mind elements operate in the shaping of his character, circumstances, and destiny.”

MY FATHER’S EYES
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT
MOVING LANDMARK
ROPED IN
AVALON
NAILED
TURBULENCE
WHISTLE-BLOWERS AND VUVUZELAS
PRIVATE DANCER SAUDADE
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY
SOWETO, UNDER THE APRICOT TREE

SUMMARY

“This apricot tree has multiple souls that fill me with wonder every morning
and enchant me by afternoon. This tree has bittersweet memories, just like
the fruit it bears.”

If the apricot trees of Soweto could talk, what stories would they tell?
Acclaimed writer Niq Mhlongo’s second short story collection provides an
imaginative answer to this question. It is imbued with a strong sense of place
as it captures the vibrancy of the township and its surrounds. Told with his
characteristic satirical flair, life and death are intertwined in these tales where
funerals and the role of the ancestors feature strongly; where cemeteries are
convenient places to meet old friends, show off your new car and catch up on
the latest gossip.

Naledi visits a cemetery in search of her father, and Bra Makhenzo, with his
kick-and-bhoboza shoes and rising debt, uses a funeral to propagate his
politics. A cat’s burial features in one story and in another a missing dog
returns when his owner is laid to rest under mysterious circumstances. Then
there is the MEC who is fascinated by his mistress’s manicure, the
zamazamas running underground settlements, a homeless man who does not
want to be saved and a mob of soccer fans ready to mete out a bloody justice.
Take your seat under the apricot tree and let a born storyteller enthral you
with tales that are both entertaining and thought-provoking.

To everything—
There is a season—
And a time to every purpose under heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

.“I learned that kids who saw me as different didn’t have an issue until society taught them to see my differences as a threat.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“It’s necessary that we do the work to unpack our shit.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“I recall Mom saying, “My children are gonna know their history. You just can’t be so trusting of white people with your history.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“You sometimes don’t know you exist until you realize someone like you existed before.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“The greatest tool you have in fighting the oppression of your Blackness and queerness and anything else within your identity is to be fully educated on it.”

“Knowledge is truly your sharpest weapon in a world hell-bent on telling you stories that are simply not true.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“I think that everything in our past is important and plays a role in our future.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“The real question we must each ask ourselves every day is: Am I willing to swim? Or is this the day that you drown? Many times, this decision will be in our own hands.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“One day the choice must be made by all: Are you teaching people how to swim or are you letting them drown?” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“My father taught me that as much as I feel that straight Black men are often my oppressors, there are moments that I also know they can be my protectors. That the social conditioning that told us to hate our own because of sex and gender can be broken.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“There is truly something to be said about the fact that you sometimes can’t see yourself if you can’t see other people like you existing, thriving, working.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“Being queer is a journey. One that is ever changing as identities that were once in the dark come to light. As relationships that once needed to be hidden come to a place of greater visibility.” — George M. Johnson, All Boys Aren't Blue

“I still wrestle with demons that won’t leave me be. They never go away; they just get quiet enough so I can think straight.”

“I want to tell my story not because it’s unique but because it is not. We may each be fighting our own fights, but we keep going: that is what ties us together. Everyone who is left here has lived to fight another day.”

“Wait, where am I going? Why is leaving the marker of success? Was I getting out or running away?”

“not everyone’s year on this Earth is created equal.”

“Kids learn, whether they are directly taught or not, and I absorbed things from my father: Don’t show them who you really are. Keep that person close. If you give them a glimpse, they’ll rip you apart for it.”

“Poverty doesn’t feel like poverty when it’s all you know, when you’re surrounded by those just like you, when you can’t conceive of any other way.”

“Jay-Z says we can’t heal what we never reveal. And it’s true.”