Child unearthed alive after buried in Gaza by Israeli air bombardment.
After a “warning bomb” through your roof, you are given 58 seconds to run, and 8 minutes to dig your child out from the rubble. The completely buried child’s darkness and terror notwithstanding, imagine the burning bare hands of these men, digging and scraping through cement dust, jagged pieces of concrete, and cinder. It sucks the moisture out of your skin. And there’s no water nearby.
We are shown these dark shadows, to better see ourselves in the path of light. I will not go easily into the shadows, but if I must to show others, I will – I pray now though, that there are men and women like this to unearth me. My children will dig with their hands, and not bury with them.
Raw Hands
These hands can deliver a baby
Or be used to write a poem
Our hands can join another’s
and together build a home.
They can exhume a child, buried alive
beneath a tomb of rubble,
Or they can hold a candle steady
Or fan the flames of trouble.
I can use these hands to dig a grave
To embrace the families of the dead
Or throttle another’s life in vengeance
Perhaps a trigger pulled instead.
They can pen a declaration
To stop or start a war
I can clench them into mighty fists
Or open them in succor.
I can point a finger at another
For his poverty or his wealth,
Or I can turn a page in humility
And point a finger at myself.
See, my hands are just like yours
Born empty, pressed in prayer
All applaud their promised land,
But, in the end it’s all our hands,
whose deeds will lead us there.
