My Grandfather Was a Terrorist by Mosab Abu Toha

My Grandfather Was a Terrorist

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He tended to his field,

watered the roses in the courtyard,

smoked cigarettes with grandmother

on the yellow beach, lying there

like a prayer rug.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He picked oranges and lemons,

went fishing with brothers until noon,

sang a comforting song en route

to the farrier’s with his piebald horse.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He made a cup of tea with milk,

sat on his verdant land, as soft as silk.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He departed his house, leaving it for the coming guests,

left some water on the table, his best,

lest the guests die of thirst after their conquest.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

He walked to the closest safe town,

empty as the sullen sky,

vacant as a deserted tent,

dark as a starless night.

 

My grandfather was a terrorist—

My grandfather was a man,

a breadwinner for ten,

whose luxury was to have a tent,

with a blue UN flag set on the rusting pole,

on the beach next to a cemetery.