Dear Refaat Alareer: A Letter of Gratitude

First, I heard of your death. Then I heard about your poetry; various—maybe many—people read the now-most-famous poem—“If I Must Die, Let It Be a Tale”—or sections of it as part of the news. Like many thousands of others, I bought your book, as a sort of remembrance or sympathy card, something concrete to hold onto, honoring and remembering your life and death. It’s a far cry from the kite you requested, a kite to be seen flying high in the heavens. A kite to bring hope and love to a child, perhaps to one of your children, looking skyward somewhere in Gaza.

Still, there is a tale and I’m writing to tell it. Let me say I found the poem’s opening lines, “If I must die / you must live,” extremely significant. Such a clear instruction to those of us under the weight of the ongoing catastrophe, wondering what to do. Wondering, can we, in good conscience, go about our daily lives knowing the urgency of the situation in Palestine, knowing, in my case, that it’s my government and my tax dollars funding the death and destruction. I’m inspired, and grateful for your dictate that we live.

For the first time, I’ve taken over some vegetable planting in our garden. I thought of you as I pushed in a pound’s-worth of onion sets, hoping to grow “better” onions than we’ve gotten in the past. I thought of you as I hoed and scratched the clumped, rich river-bottom dirt in the garden to ensure my tiny carrot seeds would grow into nice, straight carrots. I thought of you as I planted sweet peas along the garden fence. And the chickens; I had to rebuild my flock, diminished by predators. It was OK, I realized; this is also my life, to be obsessed by possible chick opportunities on Craigslist, OK to check every few hours even as things deteriorated in Gaza.

This is also part of the mandate to live—in a time of catastrophe, to take action, to call out the genocide is a critical part of living.

And then there’s the rest of the property. Areas of our large corner lot have been naturalized and “let go.” Areas where trilliums and jack-in-the-pulpits surprise me; where bloodroot and ferns sprout from out of nowhere. I found a renewed appreciation of these as part of “my life,” as part of living on when others are dying from lack of food, shelter, healthcare and endless bombs. When territory—land and all that lives and grows on it—is being poisoned and confiscated; hundred-year-old trees cut down. While tending and observing the wonders of spring in this verdant yard, I thought daily about your directive to live. I tried to hold it in my mind along with the thoughtful advice of Wendell Berry: “You can describe the predicament we’re in as an emergency,” he’s said, “and your trial is to learn to be patient in an emergency.”

And, then it was May and Mother’s Day was approaching. Mother’s Day! A day historically set aside to honor women dedicated to peace; how could we let Mother’s Day pass without calling attention to the ongoing Israeli-American femicide and infanticide in Gaza? How could the day pass without acknowledging the thousands of mothers without children, the thousands of children orphaned, without mothers? This is also part of the mandate to live—in a time of catastrophe, to take action, to call out the genocide is a critical part of living.

We declared a 24-hour Mother’s Day Vigil and Fast on Main Street—from noon on Sunday, May 11 until noon on Monday, May 12. Like Julia Ward Howe’s original call to action, we asked women to leave home for peace just as men leave house and home for war. We painted signs and banners, we hoisted a Palestinian flag on the wrought iron fence behind us. We wore our keffiyehs, and banged on pot tops. We splayed our stuffed-doll “dead babies” with signs about how many children have been killed on the sidewalk in front of us. Two comrades walked across the broad Main Street intersection with the walk light; horns blasted and whistles blew in support of freeing Palestine and Palestinians. Nao painstakingly copied out your poem in colored chalk on the sidewalk. And so the day passed.

(Photo: Laran Kaplan)

At one point late in the afternoon a man on a bike rode up and stopped in front of me: “What about us?” he screamed.

“We’re for us too,” I said. Unsatisfied, he swore and rode away. He returned a few minutes later, speeding along the sidewalk, bent down, grabbed one of the stuffed figures and rode away despite our protest.

A middle-aged white man came and stood in front of us with a Trump 2025 banner. We asked but he declined to move to another location along the sidewalk. “What about all the children killed by abortion?” he taunted. What about this, what about that. We ignored him, and he eventually left but not before taking some heat from passersby.

People, maybe as many as 20 people at one point—both men and women—came, sat, and stood together throughout the day. We were thanked and blessed by passersby; a few swore under their breath. “It’s Sunday,” said one woman, “have some respect.”

It was getting dark; three of us huddled on the sidewalk around a solar lantern, contemplating my commitment to stay overnight. I’d declared a 24-hour action out of my deep emotional desire to DO SOMETHING. Now, in light of the hassling, the reality of a cold night, alone on Main Street didn’t seem like a great idea. And anyway my comrades reminded me… today is Mother’s Day, tomorrow is “only” another Monday. So, we abandoned the vigil at 10:00 pm, heading home to our respective warm houses and beds.

I wanted you to know Refaat that although we have no kite, we do have a tale, and now we’ve told it. We promise more will come. As per your wishes we’re striving to live—hopefully a deeper and more reflective life, including a life of action against the genocide in Palestine. We’re grateful for your poems, for your tales, for your inspiration and advice.