Half-awake in my mother’s arms
In a car where it was cool and it was dark.
My mother opened her coat and covered me
As my father drove home carefully.
And I felt safe, and I felt loved.
This morning, I read about a baby in Khan Younis.
Her name is Siwar and she is starving.
Siwar’s mother needs food for her child
In a place where descendants of exile and holocaust
Withhold sustenance and mercy as strategic maneuver.
A photo of Siwar shows large eyes in a wasting body,
Published to prick response and stir still-unmoved.
Siwar is loved, but she is not safe.
Last week, I watched a film about a boy from Artsakh.
His name is Vrej, child of mountain and stream.
Vrej roamed mined fields under fragile skies—
Before and after Artsakh’s 2020 war—
Playing soldier, dreaming of future,
Wishing for safety.
Vrej is loved, but Vrej is exiled,
Torn from inheritance waiting to be recovered,
His name a reminder of his truth.
Tonight, I write about
Amorality’s power and love’s survival
And wonder whether dreams visit babies
And memories soothe children.
Do they feel the distance?
Can they touch the sacrifice?
Will they punish the shameless?
Can they forgive the shamed?
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