I howl at the screen where the map of my stifled agony stretches to the strip being stripped of its dignity and being. My tears flow into the Mediterranean. The ocean is bloated from her weeping. Remnants of death, weapons, and pollutants entangle her. Alone she must care. Alone she must bury. Alone she must grieve. Alone she must heal. Alone she must depollute. Bound by occupied land on most sides, she reaches into the controlled sea with her spine. She recognizes me. Scarred with past and present wounds, her resilience does not want my pity. The horrors inflicted upon her does not want my storytelling with graphical details. It is against her dignity and pride. In the past, I held my pain with selective ignorance, the only explanation as to why I quickly forgot her tragedies. Currently, a war is flattening her territory, and my screams are muted by political stances. Her name is being erased from our mouths. I must chant a prayer using words that will hold her spine from breaking. Words from my mother tongue, Kiswahili, and loaned words from hers, Arabic.

Marahaba,

You whose young and old existence we cherish. May you choose peace above retaliation to your adui. May the courage of baba protect you. May the duas of bibi come to pass. May the children of your binti return. May the loyalty of your rafiki endure. May the bravery of shahidi live in all of your survivors. May tears be the sabuni cleansing the harm done to you. May your spilled damu haunt the hawks until they yield to doves. May the asubuhi remind you of the graces you bear. May elfu years of the zaituni trees keep your historical record. May each dakika of life hold your resilience. May roho of your fallen malaika purify against revenge. May wakati be the fire that extinguishes evil from your descendants. May abiding imani favor and grant the freedom you seek. May the world never stop telling your hadithi.