Your Name Is Rachel Corrie Poem by Fatima Naoot

Certainly
you were drawing flowers
on your papers during your Math class
and nodding to your teacher now and again
as though you were following her.
And maybe
you had a crush on a boy in the neighborhood
and didn't finish your History homework
so the girls in the class laughed
at your notebook, full of hearts and arrows
instead of the reasons behind the French campaign in Egypt
I mean:
the reasons for wiping out Vietnam,
and the necessity of the American century.
You must have slept once with your hair undone
waiting for a cup of milk
and a kiss from your mother in the morning
dreaming of a boy with blue eyes
to replace your white teddy bear.
Blue and white
waves and bubbles
two colors beautiful
in a flower on a girl's dress,
on a bird's wing on your balcony,
sky and a cloud in a sketch book,
a photo album,
not on a flag poking the eyes of a boy
with six sharp beaks
even if it carried
a prophet's name.
Like every other girl you dreamed
of your tomorrow that would never come.
In the morning, you would carry your purse
and return after an hour from the store
with a bag of celery and peas
and you would not forget the yellow corn the youngsters loved.
Pots and spoons
and acrobats
between the kitchen, the washing machine,
and the children's room that must be cleaned
before four
-your children who will never come-
Mother, we went out today to chase frogs
and tomorrow we'll cut them with the knife.
Don't, my son!
Mother, it is the biology class
to learn what they hide in their stomachs
Wake up honey, enough sleep
Girls are outside
going to the disco
But Ma, I was dreaming!
How deep your sleep is, Rachel!
Get up!
But I will not go to the party
Where is my blue passport, Ma?
I would like to speak with God!
Like all of us, girl,
you loved
you talked to the mirror
you felt ashamed of a red spot on your dress.
Like all of us,
you drew Cupid and an arrow with two letters
and waited for knight and horse.
Just like every dark-skinned girl,
you dreamed of high-heel shoes
and transparent stockings.
Hair ribbons and plaits bored you.
And like us -if you had stayed behind-
you would have had children
and would curse the absurdity of men.
Like us, girl,
but we did not stop in front of a bulldozer to be crushed
to speak with God!
We did not stop a cannon
that wanted to snatch a child
from his laughter!
Translated by Sayed Gouda