The refugee and the foreigner

I cannot know the nation of your memory; her history is occupied. Palestine is a name, a just fight, but a human name, ascribed to define not a boundary of earth, but the essence of a people and the home for which they long. There is injustice that I, a foreigner, retain my right to walk upon these sands, while a man expelled does not. Human rights cannot be given, only denied. I am not lucky to have my rights in hand, they are mine, by right, to live and die for. But as your rights are denied, I inherit the responsibility to live and die for them as well. I am a refugee in your Palestine. And like you, I am rooted to her and my blood was spilled into her soil. Perhaps I may come and go as I wish, and perhaps I am a fighter, bound within her memory. The zionist lays claim, binds her in razor wire and punctures her breast with mast and flag. But his presence cannot spoil what will outlast him, and us. When the last of the occupiers is gone, her wounds will heal and she will remember us not by name, but by deed when we were in the company of each other.