How can I wish you Eid Mubarak?
Palestine is crying out:
\"Look at the slumbering face of humanity.\"
Palestine is calling the Adhan:
It echoes in the ears of conscience—
Listen, listen—what call is this?
No one has come—
Not from the marble thrones of the Arabs,
Not from the golden tongues of Persia’s envoys,
Not from those courts
Where the signboard of \"Justice\" hangs at the door,
Not from those nations
Who carry the torch of humanity in their hands.
We all—
Are silent pages of a diary written in blood,
Bearing the weight of martyrs
On the shoulders of silence,
As if Gaza were a video game
Where after \"Game Over,\"
Everyone gets up to laugh and eat.
We shut our eyes—
But the screams
Still float in the air,
Crashing against the walls.
Hearts?
Like stone—cold, numb.
Souls?
Empty bottles,
Ringing, echoing.
A people
Who only count bricks,
Who only pray to survive—
No cannons, no tanks,
Just one day of silence.
And we
Couldn’t even give them that.
And now?
We debate over the Eid moon.
What kind of Eid?
When in the streets of Gaza,
The bodies of children are writing a tafsir,
When a mother’s hands
Search for a shroud
But find only dust,
When every morning
Wakes to the Adhan of explosions.
In the world’s ears,
Palestine’s voice
Has become nothing but a mute echo.
They speak of \"balance\"—
Where on one side, there are cannons,
And on the other,
Just a child’s question:
\"Why?\"
The minarets of mosques
Stand silent,
Perhaps Palestine’s sighs
Have become their only Adhan now—
That call to prayer
Which, even after hearing,
We offer the prayer of oppression.
This is not Eid—
This is a certificate of our apathy.
This moment
Is a test of our faith—
With what face can we say \"Mubarak\"?
When the fireworks of our celebration
Fall upon their rubble?
This is not Eid—
This is the shroud of our souls.
And we?
We are the killers
Whose hands may be clean,
But on whose faces
Every drop of blood shines bright.
I will not wish you Eid Mubarak,
Do not wish me Eid Mubarak either—
Until a mother’s prayer,
A child’s smile,
Or a martyr’s silence
Awakens our conscience.
Mykoul