The air breezed upon us

PoetryReflections

Sep 12

Written By Eloisa

Last night I went to a vigil to honor Aysenur Ezgi Eygi, a classmate I could have met, with hundreds of people I know. The wind breezed upon us, our tears, our hair, our praying palms.

Professors and students I once camped with, she also camped with. I saw them all cry last night. They knew her. We all once camped and shared food, blankets, songs, stories, trust, even without knowing each other faces or names. I wonder if she ever saw me. I wonder if I ever spoke to her. When we camped, I met hundreds of people. I only remember a few. I wonder if I just forgot her eyes, the ones that saw resistance first-hand, in the land where olives trees grow.

Ever since her deliberate execution with the U.S.-made bullet and by the IOF trigger, I cannot stop dreaming of meeting her. I dream of waking in a tent on a cold night of May, under the stars that once embraced us. She is seating by the tree that once sheltered Refaat People’s Library. I do not remember her, and that pains me.

We know that she was shot while standing by the olive tree that rooted her as she observed a protest in the West Bank. We know that the tree continued to stand tall as Aysenur’s body befell on her roots. I wonder how many of us will continue to stand as we mourn her death.

I wonder if those roots which witnessed her last breath talk to the trees that once sheltered us in May. I wonder if the trees I hug today carry the pain that that heavenly olive tree shielded on September 6th. I wonder if I will find her under the tree that sheltered the Refaat Peoples Library.

I wonder everyday about her life and the life she gave for and to others, but there is one sure thing I know. I know the trees have carried her last breath back home to us. Last night the wind breezed upon us, as we laid down our flowers on the sand.

Across the world, Palestinians might say goodbye to her body, but we all welcome her last breath from the trees we still have. Across the world, the trees transport resistance to us. I know it, because last night we all let the breeze caress us goodbye.

I know that my jacaranda tree talks to me every time I breathe the air she carried across the border. Twelve years ago, I was transplanted and my roots have not hugged hers ever since, but I know my jacaranda tree still remembers me, the same way that olive tree will remember Aysenur.

I write this as I listen to Fairuz sing Nassam Alayna Al Hawa. Fairuz’s words are true because they transcend her diaspora. I have never felt this understood. Here is a snippet of the lyrics that I continue to cry over:

نسم علينا الهوا