The pain runs deeper than the cracks in his dry skin, a century of suffering carved into every line. Salt tears have traced the same paths down his cheeks so many times, like ancient creeks cutting through stone.
He will never surrender.
His body—injured, scarred, hollow-cheeked from hunger—yet his soul remains unbroken. His roots tunnel so deep into the holy land that olive trees sprout from his palms, their branches fed by his own blood. Each drop waters the memory of what was, what is, what must be: free Palestine.
He sees his killer's face, knows the hands that loaded the weapon, recognizes the voices that cheered when the trigger was pulled. Their names will be shamed and forgotten.
Nineteen months without real sleep, dreams interrupted by the thunder of bombs. His stomach longs for the weight of bread, his throat for the coolness of clean water. Home exists now only in the scent of dust he carries on his clothes, his school desks scattered like broken teeth across rubble that once was a children's playground.
Everything taken—walls, windows, family photos, the tree his grandfather planted, the key to doors that no longer exist. Everything except the one thing they cannot touch: his dignity, worn like an invisible crown, passed down through generations like a sacred flame that refuses to be extinguished.
His crime—he's Palestinian. His sentence—to remember. His verdict—to endure. His appeal—to the conscience of the world.
And still, he is just a child.
Ahmad Baker
May 2025
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