A Letter From Gaza to Santa Claus

This year,

we do not want dolls, nor colourful boxes, nor fleeting comfort

We have wandered long and chosen

what we ask of you.

We want magical glasses

to give to those whose eyes were taken, as olive trees were uprooted

We want small hands

to give to those whose hands were amputated, so they can wave to the new year, saying:

we are still here.

We want many wings,

to gift to our prisoners in their cells,

so they may soar with the seagulls and meet us

on the shores of our city

We want fearless feet,

to give to the heroes of our city,

so they may run toward death

to protect us.

We want homes

like the ones we once had,

homes death cannot enter,

homes that hold us from the cold

and shelter us from the harsh rain

We want seventy thousand roses;

lay them on the graves of our city,

and weep deeply,

weep for those

whose presence once was Christmas