The Pollinator

Dear Love, a weekly-ish correspondence with love

Dear Love,

The first time I told you I loved you, we were surrounded by other people. Someone in the group had just finished reciting a poem by Safia Elhillo. Do you remember the way sunlight seeped through the enclosed back porch? Behind you, a corner of houseplants and that dipped their leaves into the sun, absorbing the autumn hue.

I had only known you for a handful of hours. There were 9 of us there, encircling a wooden table with an assortment of snacks and notebooks, laptops scattered between us. After the poem’s recitation, there was a writing prompt. We wrote and then we listened. Our breathing slow or barely there. One by one, we took a turn to share how we responded to the writing prompt, briefly conjuring, out of thin air, our beloveds.

I can’t remember if the writing prompt was about love or grief, but I remember your eyes. You shared a vulnerability you had locked away for some years. It took courage to speak that vulnerability aloud, let alone on a back porch amongst relative strangers. So, when your eyes lingered, piercing into mine, for that nanosecond, across my end of the table, I saw love. Not the performance or the carefully guarded love one might present a fractured world. I saw love. And I wanted love to embrace you in its arms, right then and there.

You were crying. Quiet tears that snuck out against your will. So I spoke love’s name. I told you I loved you. I told you we all loved you. And then, for about five or so minutes we all went around the table expressing our love for one another. It was true then.

And it is true now. I love you.

My dear, in a world as cruel as ours, I think love is a requirement. I know your thoughts on the matter. But for the last week or so I haven’t gone a night without having my thoughts work their way back to Anas Al-Sharif.

I recognize the love he had for his people. He was slaughtered by the occupation for it. He was slaughtered for refusing to abandon his people. The occupation forces slaughtered Anas’ body, but they will never slaughter his love. The love he has for his family lives on. The love he has for Palestine, lives on. And his love, even in death, has expanded the world’s love for Palestine. Anas’ love continues to resist the occupation forces. After he was murdered, a posthumously message was posted on Anas’ social media accounts:

“This is my will and my final message. If these words reach you, know that Israel has succeeded in killing me and silencing my voice.

First, peace be upon you and Allah’s mercy and blessings. Allah knows I gave every effort and all my strength to be a support and a voice for my people, ever since I opened my eyes to life in the alleys and streets of the Jabaliya refugee camp. My hope was that Allah would extend my life so I could return with my family and loved ones to our original town of occupied Asqalan (al-Majdal). But Allah’s will came first, and His decree is final.

I have lived through pain in all its details, tasted suffering and loss many times, yet I never once hesitated to convey the truth as it is, without distortion or falsification – so that Allah may bear witness against those who stayed silent, those who accepted our killing, those who choked our breath, and whose hearts were unmoved by the scattered remains of our children and women, doing nothing to stop the massacre that our people have faced for more than a year and a half.

I entrust you with Palestine – the jewel in the crown of the Muslim world, the heartbeat of every free person in this world. I entrust you with its people, with its wronged and innocent children who never had the time to dream or live in safety and peace. Their pure bodies were crushed under thousands of tons of Israeli bombs and missiles, torn apart and scattered across the walls. I urge you not to let chains silence you, nor borders restrain you. Be bridges toward the liberation of the land and its people, until the sun of dignity and freedom rises over our stolen homeland.

I entrust you to take care of my family. I entrust you with my beloved daughter, Sham, the light of my eyes, whom I never got the chance to watch grow up as I had dreamed. I entrust you with my dear son, Salah, whom I had wished to support and accompany through life until he grew strong enough to carry my burden and continue the mission. I entrust you with my beloved mother, whose blessed prayers brought me to where I am, whose supplications were my fortress and whose light guided my path. I pray that Allah grants her strength and rewards her on my behalf with the best of rewards

I also entrust you with my lifelong companion, my beloved wife, Umm Salah (Bayan), from whom the war separated me for many long days and months. Yet she remained faithful to our bond, steadfast as the trunk of an olive tree that does not bend – patient, trusting in Allah, and carrying the responsibility in my absence with all her strength and faith. I urge you to stand by them, to be their support after Allah Almighty.

If I die, I die steadfast upon my principles. I testify before Allah that I am content with His decree, certain of meeting Him, and assured that what is with Allah is better and everlasting. O Allah, accept me among the martyrs, forgive my past and future sins, and make my blood a light that illuminates the path of freedom for my people and my family. Forgive me if I have fallen short, and pray for me with mercy, for I kept my promise and never changed or betrayed it.

Do not forget Gaza. And do not forget me in your sincere prayers for forgiveness and acceptance.”

I read Anas’ letter and I take to heart what he has entrusted us with. His love permeates beyond words, beyond translations, and it disarms the distorted propaganda of this empire’s attempts to silence his voice.

You can’t silence love.

In its purest expression, it is love’s courage that is stubborn and brave. It is love’s courage that will resist and defeat the apartheid nation’s occupation of Palestine. It is love’s courage that will defeat this empire. It is love’s courage that will end the suffering of Sudan, of Congo, of Haiti. Love will defeat the occupation of D.C. and L.A. Love is an action that will always win. One way or another, love will fight back.

When my grandmother converted to Islam, she abandoned the last name her ancestors inherited from the enslavers that once owned them. She renamed herself, selecting one of the 99 attributes of God for her last name. When translated into English, the attribute means love, The Most Loving. My grandmother died in 2018 during Dhul Hajjah. I washed her lifeless body with my own two hands. I felt The Most Loving pour over me when I poured water over her, when I wrapped her in white cloth. I felt The Most Loving when I read Anas’ letter, when I saw his beloveds carrying his slain body towards his burial. I witnessed The Most Loving when they sang “Allahu Akbar Allahu Akbar Wa Lillahil Hamd”. And I know what you are thinking—how cruel, how could The Most Loving let this slaughtering continue?

And I don’t have an answer for that. All I know is that there is love. All I know is that my grandmother re-named herself and that did something to her and it rippled to my mother, and is rippling through me. All I know is, it was once illegal for my formerly enslaved ancestors to read and write and now, I am writing these words to you—with you, oh love.

A poem taught me there are at least 11 words for love in the Arabic language and this led me to chase after words that do not exist in English. I want to say The Most Loving is like the wind. A pollinator. A tornado. A wind chime. A monsoon. What fills up the lungs of a singer or a poet before she recites:

“abdelhalim said you left me holding wind in my hands

or
abdelhalim said you left me holding love in my hands”

I want to say The Most Loving will grant us justice in this life and in the next life. I want to say The Most Loving will haunt each of Anas’ killers like the wind. I want to say The Most Loving will inspire every heart on this earth to respond to Bisan’s call to action until we are all tornado or monsoons whipping apart the occupation’s weapons. Oh love, oh voice of Palestine.

I want to say so many things that can’t exist in English. This is more than just witnessing you, love. Each night, my heart wanders back to conjuring your names. And the air is thin. And the wind never stops.

Yours Truly,

The Bean Pie Poet

P.S. Every Thursday there’s a global strike, avoid spending money. And Also, send this e-mail