Artistic Contributions

Artistic contributions

from the Irish people
inspired by the just cause of the Palestinian people

We have received many songs, poems, and short stories from Irish people who have been moved by the experiences of Palestinians. It is an overwhelming feeling, reading the words from citizens here who are so far away from Palestine, yet feel so close to our people through a shared history and sense of humanity. The below works have been published with the kind permission of the authors.

The Dove

A short story by Rachael McGee, aged 15, from Donegal (Pictured above)

A young mother’s broken sobs pierced the dreary night. Smoke wafted drowsily in the city behind, a haunting reminder of the recent tragedy that had struck. Charred families stumbled into the makeshift camp, babies swaddled in nothing but rags and ash. The night air was devoid of anything other than grief and fear. This war-if you could even call it that-had stripped so much from survivors. A glacial chill settled over the secluded retreat, creeping in through the frayed seams and gaping slashes of tents, of clothes.

Outside one of the makeshift shelters, a tawny-eyed boy named Aarash trembled, folding into his mother’s arms. Her embrace was as broken as she was, a hollow refuge from the cold, from the horrors that surrounded them. They had nothing left, only each other. But even that felt tenuous. If the soldiers or bombs didn’t claim them, the cold and hunger would.

The morning sun bathed the devastated Gaza in an almost cruel warmth, drying their throats and scorching their skin. Aarash and his mother flitted between tattered tents, exchanging feeble rations and their bitter condolences. The stench of singed flesh and human waste clung to the air, a far cry from the fragrant hashweh and dawali Aarash had once savoured at family gatherings. The weight of their situation was only beginning to dawn on the young boy, and he began to tremble uncontrollably.

The days in the survivor camp in Gaza blurred together, each one more suffocating than the last. Dust settled on his skin and on his lashes, mingling with the tears he no longer had the energy to shed. His world had shrunk to the hollow faces around him, his mother’s once plump arms trembling as she tried to comfort him with reassurances she no longer believed. At night, as the cold gnawed through the thin blankets, Aarash lay awake, listening to the distant echo of bombs, wondering if the stars he used to wish upon were still there or if they too had fallen into the darkness. The memory of his father’s laughter, the taste of bread before it was rationed, the warmth of their home—everything seemed like a cruel dream now, fading faster with each passing day. His mother’s silent prayers felt like the only fragile thread tethering them to hope, though even she knew that hope in the shrinking Gaza strip was a luxury few could afford.

In the midst of his growing despair, a soft flutter of wings graced him from above. A single white dove descended from the branches of a newly flowering olive tree, its coos soft, almost soothing. The bird settled on the ground near the crowd, oblivious to the destruction surrounding it.

Aarash’s eyes followed the dove, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps—igniting in his chest. For a brief moment, it was as if the world had paused. The air stilled, and the sobs quieted. The dove was out of place in this hellscape, but its presence felt like a quiet promise, a reminder that even in the darkest corners of the world, life still endured.

From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.

Genocide

A poem by David Ryan from West Waterford for Palestine & Gaeil ar Son.

Ingredients.

1: A warped sense of self importance.

2: A people who are to be wiped out. It is preferable that the majority of this populace is poor.

However, it is more important that no one intercedes on their behalf. In any case, once the killing begins any difficulties of conscience in the International community will be compounded by their now implied complicity.

3: A smattering of ancient lore or scripture to justify your bloodlust.

You may have to ask a person masquerading as a cleric here. Or, better still interpret the word of your chosen deity yourself.

A genuine holy man is not advisable, as they may cause the opinion of your primary population to split.

4: A well stocked arsenal.

I can’t stress this enough. It really is the backbone of all successful genocides, but without a steady supply of ammunition and ordnance you may only achieve to ethnically cleanse.

As the killing ramps up there will be calls for ceasefires and such to deliver medical aid, fuel and food. Under no circumstances must you agree to this. The killing must continue. So plan ahead with your major arms supplier.

5: A pretext.

Always push the populace that you wish to exterminate to strike first.

This may sound counterintuitive, but it is critical as the death toll rises, because as mentioned in point four, there will be calls for clemency. The main reason therefore is to give you the illusion of right being on your side. Media and press outlets may report graphic depictions that could indicate your final destination. Don’t pay any attention to this. Rather think of the Press as a giant keyboard upon which you can play.

Tried and tested methods to induce this first strike gambit are to restrict movements; Arrest and detain without charge or due process; Erect barriers and checkpoints. And if you are able to, in these modern times, employ a fierce regime of apartheid. Remember the three d’s : Disenfranchise, Denigrate and Demonize.

An apartheid regime is really the gold standard solution in preparation for genocide, but you must make sure your youth are indoctrinated to loathe the target population, for it is the flower of the nation that will be pulling those triggers and dropping those bombs to secure your legacy.

Flames

A poem by Liam Regan

The words of Edmund Burke

Came to mind

While watching the flames,

In their shades of yellow

And red,

Dance beneath the logs

In my fireplace.

“All it takes”, he said, “for evil to succeed

Is for good men to do nothing”.

And in this season of goodwill,

While choirs sang of Peace on Earth

Another flame came to mind.

One that burned in the branches

Of ancient olive trees.

And in the hearts

Of an ancient people

In their sacred land.

Extinguished now,

By the blood and tears

Of the innocent,

Its brightness crushed

Beneath the evil of apartheid

And the heavy jackboot

Of the colonisers.

And on this night,

When Christians proclaim the Virgin Birth,

There is no Peace on Earth

For those dying

In the hospitals destroyed

By Zionist bombs.

And in the ruins of their houses

There is no Silent Night

For the hungry children.

And while

The skies over Palestine burn,

Good men

Still do nothing.

Mothers and Fathers

A poem by Conchobhar Ó Súilleabháin.

Flinch not from
the enormity of the task
Retreat not from
the dark clouds, gathered.

You have a place here
greater than thyself
You have a role here
yet to fulfil
- love now, do right now
pray now, walk in peace now
bless now, help now.

Sit not aside and look on
shirking from the call
for help, for a voice,
Hope now
for despite what may appear
as evidence to the contrary
Love, life and light
still exist in our world
at this time.

Do now
what needs doing
for life rewards action,
And I believe firmly
in the unstoppable, unbeatable
and indomitable power
of peace and love
And in the ever persistent pursuit
of a better world
for our children
and for our children's children.

I'm willing to lay it all
on the line
to make it so,
I will, I must,
And this my post
I'll never abandon.

I hear you
Mothers and Fathers
of Palestine, of Sudan
of Mali, of Israel
of the Congo and of Ukraine,
I hear too
your son's and daughter's silence
- after their terrified cries ended.

I'm not much, I'm only me
but what I am
is yours,
And I may not be
what or who you prayed for
as the bombs rained down on you
But maybe, just maybe
your prayers knew I'd hear.

I may not be
the answer to your prayers
But maybe
the one who answers such
found a use even for
a simple tool such as I.

We all must take courage now
roll up our sleeves
And work like never before
for a better way, a wiser way
and a world worthy
of all our prayers answered.

These prayers
won't be answered for us
but by us,
And by Mothers and Fathers
by sons and daughters
Who stood, who said
we'll not give in to fear
we'll not surrender to hate
And we're not willing
to quietly live in a world at war
with itself
just because it's not us, this time.

We shall not accept less
we shall not settle,
For we are makers
of a better way,
For we are Fathers and Mothers
of a world as it should be
as it must be and can be.

Destiny is not delivered
it is carved out and claimed.

Wait no more
look no further
for the answers
- be an answer,
Wait not for the messengers
and makers of peace
- be the messengers and the makers.

I may be but one
but in one, I can be all
And so can you
- let's begin.

If you can write
write
If you can speak
speak
If you can help
help
If you can pray
pray
If you can but crawl
crawl,
Prayers need answering.