CHEERS TO INTIFADA the Students for Justice in Palestine at UChicago
THE
RESISTANCE CO
AND
ITS
-CONSPIRATORS
2 introduction
8 Colonized Babylon Rua Jendawe
3 for my lovers by the sea anonymous
9 Land of the Sad Orange Eslam Muheisen
4 Cheers to Intifada Eslam Muheisen
10 Untitled Marya Tawam
5 Reckoning anonymous
11 Strange Times Eslam Muheisen
6 Little Town of Bethlehem Richard Solomon
12 Medjool Relief Jenna Nimer
7 society Eslam Muheisen
13 ocean Eslam Muheisen
introduction "Cheers to Intifada" is a compilation of solemn and celebratory works that artists worldwide have sent to the Students for Justice Palestine at the University of Chicago. The breadth of imagery, depth of emotion, and scope of history expressed throughout the works reflect the diversity of the Palestinian struggle — from Palestine to the United States. We have found that poetry and art are necessary instruments when memoirs, novels, and articles fail to convey the burning sensation of anger against oppression. When that pent-up anger is released as art, it charges the viewer to gaze at the text, graphics, and individual lines. It demands the viewer feel our anger. Because of the boldness of the pieces, we found ourselves using all five senses to reflect on our submissions. Our teary eyes were looking for our lovers across the sea in “for my lovers by the sea.” Meanwhile, "Reckoning' s" rhythmic beat kept us awake. We were intoxicated by the smell of wet paint and tear gas in "Little Town of Bethlehem." We were able to taste the bitter rinds of ruins in some of our graphics while finding respite in the cool watermelons of "Medjool Relief." All this while feeling the suffocating pain of remembering in "untitled." We present works that probe the past not to summon nostalgia but rather to learn how our ancestors' struggles can guide our imaginaries. Just as the artists’ emotions materialize in their work, they craft what justice may look like in the future. “Remember Your Future; disrupt their refrain.” Until Liberation, Students for Justice in Palestine at the University of Chicago
for my lovers by the sea I un derstood lo n g before I ev e r uttered I fe l t lo n g before I ev e r realized a n d now I weep r i v e r s o f g l e e b e c a use of you m y l overs by the s e a
re v e re ye all They who in t he desert p o s s ess the powe r to p rovoke ra i n .
Y o u who fly, You w h o f l e e a t l ast y o u have taught m e w h a t it means to b e free. fo r lifetimes I se a r c h e d a n d I could not fi n d m y t ongue was lo s t , m y t o n g u e wa s t i e d u n l o cked You my h e a r t , u n l e a s he d m y p r i d e a n d coaxed me ou t from whence I hi d e . O h m y lovers by t h e s e a , O h a l l you who trac e y o u r l i n e s , I ba t hed in your r o a r I ba s ked in your c r y ro u g hened rasp m y g r o w l , sc r e aming free f r e e O h Y ou who braze a l l u s o f b r o nz e f a c e : S u n d er the sea a n d b r a n d i s h y o ur c a s e ! A s k of me the su n a n d I s h a l l g i ve c h a s e a n d enrage me aw a y f r o m t h i s h us h e d g r a c e . re m e mber Your F u t u r e ; d i s r u p t t h e i r r e f r a i n .
Eslam Muheisen
reckoning a Palestinian content warning: r*pe D o you s e e t h e s h o o t i n g l i g h ts? D o e s it d a w n on y o u o n c e t h e y G l o w? Will you f a c e m e o n c e t h e y F a l l? Will you s h o w m e t h e p e a c e f u l Way? a n d say t h a t t hi n g s s h o u l d s tay T h e same ? a n d tell me t a les o f h o w y o u ’re s c a red t h a t y o u r h o use w i l l f a l l ove r y o u r h e ad?! l i k e our s d o e ve r y d a y … ? F u c k you r p o l it i c a l g a m e s “ h i stori c a l r i g ht s ” a n d “ b i b l i cal claims” N o w look a t t he l i g h t s a g a i n T h e y’re a t e s t am e n t t o o u r r age T r u thful k n i v es c h i p p i n g a w a y A t the l i e s o f yo u r I r o n C a g e a n d the s t o r i e s i n y o u r h e a d t h a t hau n t y o u d a y t o d a y . I s it the g h o s t o f J o s h u a w h i speri n g “ k il l t h e m ! k i l l the m a l l ” ? T o y o u r e a r s ? O h let t h e s i r en s k i l l y o u r f e ars… F o r w e a r e the c h o s e n o n e s . T h e eart h d r u ms a t o u r c o m mand We are i t s ’ r h yt h m s a n d i t s ’ s ounds I n anger w e s t om p t h e g r o u nds We marc h ! I n love w e ma k e l o v e t o t h e holy lands We danc e ! T u m ult u o u s c o m p o s e d w e f l uctuate We are t h e p l ac e s a n d l a n d s c apes t h a t our f a c e s i m i t a t e We are t h e t e r ri t o r i e s y o u t e r rorize a n d rape .
We are w h e r e yo u c a m e a n d all t h a t w il l r e m a i n . We are t h e s t i ll s t a n d i n g h o mes a n d the s t i l l s tu b b o r n s t o n e s We are t h e w i th s t a n d i n g m o untains e x h austi n g w a ve s o n t h e s h o r es We are t h e u n so i l e d f e r t i l e s o il t h e infi n i t e s t re t c h o f s a n d s … N o w look a t t he L i g h t s a g a i n A n d tremb l e t o t h e s o u n d s ! O h tremb l e t o t h e s o u n d s o f the s c r eamin g s i r en s Y e s tremb l e t o t h e s o u n d s o f the dancing i r o ns O h , Tremb l e t o t h e s o u n d s o f scrap me t a l d r o p p i n g p e e l ing your s h a me Y e s , Tre mb l e t o t h e s o u n d s o f our b e a t i n g D a b k a s h a t t e r ing your c h a ins.
Would
Little
or
for
town
of
say
would
the
for
town
of
with
or
at
remember
of
my
wet
the
in
a
the
the
how
wind
gas
the
Santa
David
or
the
olive
the
the
adhan
would
a
on
Manger
your
were
you
born
her
identity
soldier
"Nazareth,
would
is
was
Caesar’s
who
God
violence,
pause
down,
to
I
the
am
an
angel
my
think
warn
to
it
bin
the
American
born
again
not
Berliner.
trough
UNRWA
dim,
remember
dirty
birth
wet
no
paint
no
design.
pains
went
home
midwifes
because
because
the
budget
america
great
which
would
wall
nothing
again
from
and
the
cuts
needed
make
dripped
halls
I
but
how
hospital,
with
of
Kennedy
Jesus
the
full
Berliner
Mr.
I
with
ein
but
be
animal
an
paint
sign
go
a
an
to
one
way.
were
would
that
her
was
you
ladder
what
arab
Ich
magai
different
and
thundered
because
the
shiver
say
and
like
too.
reads
Israel."
she
poet
would
against
card
adjust
the
write
Caesar
again,
I
like
to
to
state
and
hand
say
Mary
or
a
really
Square.
what
hand
you
shekel
trees
sunset
give
would
arms
echoes
and
Jesus,
of
terrorism.
playground.
in
and
or
Goliath
rolled
hold
in
suit
mean,
And
If
Clause
cans
empty
remember
a
stones
paint
the
tear
across
or
world
gun
throw
a
or
to
join
moral
tanks
purity
in
you
concrete
and
I
men's
smell
I
on
Homa
Bethlehem,
a
I
wood
Har
homes
most
army
in
Little
rich
cut
of
Ramallah.
the
richard solomon
Joseph
settlers
the
Would
Bethlehem
"
"
summer
in
"
"
and
or
you
שנה טובה كل عام وانتم بخير
today
you
me
prefer?
to
say
suffering.
says
SOCIETY Eslam Muheisen
Colonized Babylon Rua
Jendawe
content
warning:
sexual
assault
In colonized Babylon our fortress was replaced with a cage of copper, The sun with a watchtower lit by a cigarette That is held hostage between the pink lips of a Polish teenager, Armed with a plastic crown and a metal gun. A suave rooster’s crow with the cacophony of fragmented sounds of bombs. Winds that platonically flirt with strands of hair, with perverted bullets shot with animalistic lust Yearning to rape bodies, To go into the hearts of our mothers before tearing through our chests, Scattering our neatly decorated insides. Strolling the desert in imperfect circles, searching for our oasis of placidity, Or what is closest in peacefulness And harmony To a smoking corner of a European airport. Holding a soft whistle between our wooden lips, Protecting it from frantic white cries And the slams of cement doors, That wakes up those who went to spell-casted sleep By dint of a soft whistle That is sleeping, Sucking on its thumb between the cracks of our teeth.
Eslam Muheisen
Land of the Sad Oranges - Ghassan Kanafani
Untitled Marya Tawam
I used to live through memories that weren’t mine through words that whisper and hum the songs of a land that almost raised me their unfamiliarity stings the back of my throat until i choke it drips down my elbow in a piercing, thin line and lingers at the bottom. i wait for it to fall, to feel it come off me, slowly, to understand but I only watch it spread it’s edges expanding outward like the silken thread of a web I try to piece myself together, to make sense, but i never notice that every piece is from a different puzzle now I live through my own, but I do not feel in the way that I felt when my life was not mine, when the memories were tinged with the sweet sorrow of hope. Because to live through my own is to sigh, To steal an eternal glance Into another life, Another land, and to move on. it is to forget.
but I do not want to forget, And I am tired of sighing. So I gasp for another air to breathe I gasp for the air That fills me with the scent of jasmine and smoke I want to feel, To cry, For my heart to ache. I want to burn for my land The way that it has been burned. For the knights on my body To wake up from their slumber And stand tall in the face of a rearing lion Because it seems as though the pain Is all that remains Of my land And its people so I yearn for the stinging, the burning the prick that infuriates my blood, sends it trickling down cold and ever so slow. because for ten years i have watched and rewatched my own memories, as if they were a movie, blurring the border between mine and theirs, until i no longer had any
strange
eslam
times
muheisen
medjool relief Jenna Nimer crossfire in the crosswords. headlines and headaches. newspapers litter frustrated kitchen tables. static barbed with names of martyrs. staring back at cooled sage tea. it is bitter. we are outmatched. the rats climb our flagpoles and think themselves tall. but now, we suffer behind colored screens. now we see saffron hues on sweat-soaked kuffiyehs. olive green uniforms uproot our olive trees. they heave and strain and reach for shade. we try to give it to them. but when i hear her voice in sophisticated letters, yes, her song in calligraphy, those onyx strokes adorned in silk, i remember the rusted key at her navel. once pressed to my face in embrace & she still sleeps with it under her cotton pillow & i would trace my fingers over our jagged terrain. she embroidered resilience onto my shoulders. fingerprint-eroded rocks crowd the streets. sometimes we delight in medjool relief, but today, we savor chilled watermelon with spoons.
ocean
eslam muheisen