Utopia

I didn't know what a massacre is then.

I didn't know what it entails
to have brown skin and eastern blood.

April 1, 2002.
Jenin Refugee Camp Massacre.

I caught a glimpse on the television
of cut skin and scattered limbs
and was quickly told to go to bed.
I tossed and turned that night.
I cried in my pillow.

Wait, don't feel sad for me.

I wasn't murdered
that night. I wasn't
burnt, I wasn't
amputated,
I wasn't made to
dig through the rubble to see the light.
I wasn't scared for my life, I didn't get
a c-section without anesthesia.
I wasn't rummaging through a hospital
lobby for the body of my child.

But she did. He did. They did.

The world is a putrid, pus-smelling
meaningless chunk
covered in gold wrapping, with
a 0.9 carat diamond on top.

We mistake colonies for civilisations,
we have more skincare products
than human rights,
we book flights to Bora Bora, sip
pina coladas on the beach, watch
"get ready with me" reels
and unfollow when a page mentions
genocide because yolo and nmp
and only positive vibes.

I didn't know what a massacre is then.

I didn't know that the world doesn't
condemn the murdering of a child
if their name sounded like Salma or
Muhammad or Karim
or Attya or Ghina
or Ruaa or Ali.

I didn't know which shade of skin
is deserving of empathy,
which ethnicities are deserving
of life and food and birthday cakes
and school events and

dignified death.