The Tribe That Remembers
By Mai Shahin
Come close, my children of dust and dawn,
sit by the trembling flame.
Let the night lean in and listen
to the pulse of our tribe,
to the beating of our shared heart.
When the world forgets — sing anyway.
Sing to the bones,
to the rivers,
to the earth that still remembers us all.
When they burn your homes — do not curse the fire.
Place your hands upon the soil.
Let the ashes teach you
the language of return.
Let the wind carry our prayers
to every corner the oppressor would hide.
We are not alone, my beloved.
We rise together —
daughters, sons, mothers, fathers,
the children of every street and stone.
Every step we take is a drumbeat,
every breath a seed
for the healing of the world.
Do not speak in anger — speak in truth.
Let your words rise like smoke:
soft, unbreakable,
carrying the scent of the sacred.
When the guns roar, we hum beneath the noise.
Life moves through us — still,
even in the shadow of war.
Our grief becomes a river,
our tears a bridge,
our song a shield
against forgetting.
O Gaza, heart of impossible love,
your sorrow is the fire of survival,
your laughter the whisper of rebellion.
The world may try to silence us,
but together we rise —
not only to survive,
but to remember, to heal, to resist.
We are the tribe of the remembering,
the keepers of the pulse of life.
Our grief is holy,
our sorrow is sacred,
our love is a revolution
that no wall, no gun, no genocide can erase.
When your body falters — lean on each other.
When your voice trembles — let the tribe speak.
When the world turns its back — build bridges with your hearts.
We are the living resistance,
the prayer that refuses to end,
the fire that cannot be contained.
Let us plant together,
let us heal together,
let us rise together.
Every hand that reaches,
every mouth that sings,
every heart that remembers
is part of the same flame.
We carry the future in our joined hands,
we carry the ancestors in our bones,
we carry the fire in our hearts.
Even in ruin,
even in sorrow,
we are alive —
we are awake —
we are the tribe that remembers.
So breathe, my children — deep, slow, together.
Let the earth hear our song.
Let the rivers hum our names.
Let the world learn again
how to live,
how to heal,
how to rise.