Olive roots watered by distant sun,
Shadowed now by London rain.
Even here, the keffiyeh’s threads
run under my skin—
heredity memory stitched into mornings dense with tea,
and the subdued ache of white BBC voices,
rituals of politeness, not quite my own.
Salt and sand cling to my name,
So many stories passed down from generations,
Whispered under the frightened breath of exiles.
I scroll through daily headlines and see blood and rubble,
Children with eyes vast as sorrow.
My chest splits open with unimaginable grief,
But I am told that Union Jack is still too clean,
And though I am citizen, tax-payer, neighbour,
My tongue stumbles over ‘us’ and ‘them’
The school curriculum taught me about colonial truths,
Yet my history remains unmentioned and disrespected,
Majnoon between borders, not exiled,
But not quite home.
Every night I hold vigil, torn between
duty and doubt inked in equal measure.
To be British, and yet never British;
to be Palestinian, and without a home.
Yet I stand—two shadows in one body—
Deeply mourning but unashamed.
No flag can map my ache or anchor—
I bear my roots like a birthright,
and dream that my people will be safe,
Even here among spires and silent rain.
