Red

"My red comes from my Palestinian side."

I've had to explain that more times than I can remember. I am always more than ready to explain it again--to pronounce with pride, "PALESTINIAN." Many think my red was passed to me by my Hungarian grandmother, but it was not. In my appearance, I am 100% Palestinian.

Sidi Yousef (Allah yir7amo) was my ancestral red head. Because of him, I have freckles. Like him, I have red hair. For dar El-Khatib, I am a token red-head, who stands out in the family photo--almost every Palestinian family has at least one of us. My family has several.

We--I was chosen to carry Sidi Yousef's red forward. And I carry it on my head and in my heart.

My blood is red like his was. He poured it out of himself, and siphoned it into his children, who filtered it into their children--and then flooded it into me. His red pumps the lines that bulge through the thin skin around my wrists and hands. His red pulses through that snake that climbs from my left leg's ankle, twists to my hamstring, and, trapped under a thinner layer of dermis, slivers slowly up my knee and thigh. I watch the red turn the thick, blue tunnel green as my Palestinian adrenaline gushes it through.

His red makes my heart boil and flushes my cheeks. I squeeze my hand so tightly that my nails dig into my own flesh, and my red--his red--drips down my wrist as my knuckles turn green, then black, then white.

Today, that red is stiffening a fist, and right before it meets your blue and white face, his red--my red--pulses aloud, "WATON."

Today, you see our red drowning you from inside. It bursts your vessels and chokes your throat. It streams from your nostrils, now shaded in green with a broken bridge. It crusts a deeper red over the cuts and digs now contouring your cheeks. Our red stains the white teeth left hanging in your mouth, and splatters under the formerly white teeth that were knocked out. Our red dries black onto your skull's skin--around the crack, punctured by the rock the knock out landed you on.

And as you attempt to squint up at me behind your throbbing, bleeding pupils, you see the red on my head, and I tell you, "The red comes from my Palestinian side."

With Tools of Thread & Vinyl

This is my needle. 

Its shine has been dulled by experience; its experience has kept its tip sharp.  So, do not mind the hash marks that layer its cylinder and the metal tear that hangs in its opening--it still works. 

My needle dips itself in virgin canvases, introducing emptiness to life.

And with that first stitch-scratch, it alters a passive environment forever. 

My needle paves a new paradigm with braid and bass. 

Threads of livelihood and blood weave in and out, mapping my history. The pattern is redundant--grow, peak, regress, repeat. The tip undulates as it irrigates the mature record, waxing a way for my future to flow. The beat is the benchmark--boom, tss, mellow, believe.

My needle teaches the loom and the spindle how to sign, and tell a story that can be seen and heard.

It gives birth in a place called Palestine to tatreez that tell tales of tragedy and triumph on cloth and vinyl.

My needle's legacy dons the heads of those deemed Palestinian, protecting them from the elements and proclaiming their identity. My needle tattoos airwaves that travel at warp speeds to singe follicles and corrode canals; it remembers the destruction of olive groves and the attempted uprooting of existence.

It reminds that Palestine still exists. 

My needle writes my waton; my needle sings my anthem.

[This is dedicated to all of the 7attas and turntables, and those who work them. To some, you are fashionable. To me, you are more than that--I know your real worth, and I appreciate it. You are how Palestine is seen and heard; you are living symbols of my beloved land. And you will outlive any superficial trends. Guaranteed.]