Poetry | Israel-Hamas conflict

If I Were to Die Tomorrow

If I were shot, killed on the spot, left to rot — would I be villainized in society’s eyes? Would the public in protest rise? Would it be me or my murderers they despise?

If I were to die tomorrow in a shooting at a traffic light driving home alone feeling safe despite the endless night. Anger fueled by the conflict murdered on a mission where I’m a stand-in for anyone who fills a description.

Would I be mourned as a victim of anger, or fate? would I be a pawn in the endless chess game of hate? Would anyone see beyond the slogans the empty platitudes the angry guns the predetermined attitudes?

Would my death be justified? Would my burial be dignified? Would I suddenly be part of the ping pong of politics? Would they throw around reasoning, hoping something sticks?

Would everything I ever penned be examined for the why? Would my family be given space to cry? Would my merely existing be enough reason for the slaughter? Though we’re all connected, Someone’s cousin, someone’s daughter? Would someone claim that my death was justice? (There is no one else coming to save us, it’s just us.)

Would they mock the hope I cling to, that one day there’ll be peace? Would they comfort those in mourning with an “it’s sad, BUT” because the who matters less than the supposed why, and the what? Would my distant friends call it another warning that democracy is deteriorating, it would seem, that sanity’s sage is burning and peace is a crumbling tumbling long-lost dream? Would my college friends, who were once liberal and maybe now have strayed into over-woke blame me for being in the wrong place say wow, she must’ve changed since we last spoke?

Got into a car, only wanting to get from place to place. For each to have their own place. Live and let live and let live. Struck down, looked violence right in the face, and would my family be able to forgive?

If I were to die tomorrow victim of a randomly-executed terrorist attack, what would people say? Things you let out, grievances you air you cannot take back. Would the memory of me stay? Would the world claim it was with good reason? Would they say it was deserved? Would my country of residence be enough to say this was karma, served? Would they know I was simply existing and that rape and murder isn’t resisting?

Or would I become a symbol a topic divisive? Memorialized. Villainized. Only real in the eyes of those who knew me. no longer a person as you all choose to see through me.

And slowly fading into the dusty residue of wartime loss and disbelief, a continuous mourning of endless grief.

If I were to die tomorrow would I be disavowed? Would my loved ones be allowed to mourn without protest without turning me into a symbol of unrest? When all I wanted was to get from place to place to place? When will we have our own place? Allowed the space to just be without fear.