Phalapoem

Phalapoem editor, 1/04/25

(Scene: A ruined street in Gaza. The air is thick with dust and grief. Handala, the barefoot 10-year-old Palestinian boy with his back always turned to the world, stands amid the rubble. He does not turn around when Donald Trump arrives, escorted by cameras and advisors. Trump, dressed in his usual suit, surveys the destruction with a businessman’s eye, calculating profit, not pain.)

Trump:

So this is Gaza, huh? What a mess. But don’t worry, I have a vision—hotels, casinos, golf courses, the best, really. We’ll make Gaza the Riviera of the Middle East! And, of course, no more Palestinians. They have no right to be here.

Handala: (without turning around)

You look at destruction and see real estate. I look at it and see my people’s graves. You talk about a “Riviera.” I talk about a homeland.

Trump:

Oh, come on, kid. This place is a disaster. It needs development, investment. We’ll clear it out—new roads, luxury apartments. Think about it—no more rubble, just resorts. I’m a businessman, and I know how to make a place great again.

Handala:

Clear it out? You mean wipe out the last traces of my people? You want to build towers on the bones of murdered children. Tell me, did you even blink when your bombs crushed their tiny bodies?

Trump:

Listen, war is messy. But we have to support Israel, our greatest ally. They have the right to defend themselves!

Handala:

Defend themselves? Against babies? Against starving families? You cry for your Israeli prisoners but feel nothing for the thousands of Palestinian prisoners, rotting in dungeons without trial. Your justice is like your hair—fake and falling apart.

Trump:

Look, I make tough decisions. I cut spending for Americans, but Israel needs our help. Billions in aid, top-of-the-line bombs. I call that smart policy.

Handala:

Smart policy? You cut school lunches for your own children but pay for missiles that tear Palestinian children apart. You deport pro-Palestinian protesters but protect pro-Israeli ones. Your “freedom” has a price tag, and we all know who pays it—with blood.

Trump:

Well, if people protest too much, they should leave. America stands with Israel, no question about it. And if you people can’t live in Gaza peacefully, maybe you should leave too. There are other Arab countries, you know.

Handala:

Where should we go? My grandparents were forced from Yafa. My parents were pushed into Gaza. Now you want to shove me into the sea. Tell me, if a thief steals your home, do you pack your bags and thank him—or do you fight to return?

Trump:

Life isn’t fair, kid. Some win, some lose. That’s history.

Handala:

History remembers, Mr. Trump. And history does not forgive. One day, these ruins will speak louder than your towers. One day, my people will return—not as your workers, not as your tenants, but as the rightful owners of this land.

(Trump scoffs and turns away, uninterested in the words of a barefoot child. But Handala remains where he is, unmoved, unwavering—just as he has always been, waiting for justice that will one day come.)