Feast of the Princes… After the Iftar Ends

It seems that someone forgot to tell the noble princes…
that the invitation they received, stamped with the pain of the people and signed by the free ones of Fatah,
was nothing more than a fleeting Ramadan Iftar.

Ramadan has ended…
the crescent has disappeared…
and the tables have been lifted…
except for theirs.

Ten princes… and fifty-one followers,
who are still sitting on the same chairs made of organizational ivory,
with the same imported soft drinks in front of them,
waiting… no one knows for what
and asking for… more and more and more.

The problem is not just that they delayed leaving for far too long…
the problem is that they didn’t consider leaving at all.

They extended the session until it transformed from an Iftar into a permanent residence,
from a fleeting invitation to an acquired right
and from a table on the margins of the homeland…
to a homeland on the margins of their table.

The food is still without salt…
so that their blood pressure does not rise
but the pressure from the street… has exploded.

Sugar is still forbidden…
but the bitterness of the people… has become the main course.

The ambulances that were lined up in precaution for their pulse
are now needed for the pulse of an entire homeland
exhausted from this scene.

And the armored cars are still outside,
with the black glass obscuring the truth from them
so that an employee does not spoil their atmosphere by asking about his salary
or a staff member asks them the simplest question:
Where have you been?

But the most dangerous thing…
is not in the food… nor in the chairs…
but in the stories.

They sit…
and invent stories from unreality
and believe them
and retell them to each other despite their hatred for one another
just like the lying Layla did when she accused the wolf
until the wolf… became more truthful than the tale.

And among them sits…
someone who whispers… someone who preaches… someone who embodies the role of the sage
the one who appointed himself as a guide for the stage
and in reality…
is the lord of the impostors.

He distributes illusions just as plates are distributed
and speaks of unity that he does not experience
and of a project that he cannot see
and of a people… who no longer hears him.

As for the sealed envelope…
that was placed before each seat that night
its words have run out.

There is no longer a text to read…
nor a smile to perform…
nor a timing for applause that can be adjusted.

The show has ended.

And yet…
they are still sitting.

They look with anxiety…
with fear…
with unveiled anger
and sometimes with cheap threats
to every young Fatah member trying to pass by that table,
not to eat…
but to ensure that Fatah has not been completely hijacked.

The place is exhausted from them…
and time is exhausted from them…
and we are disgusted by them.

And yet…
they sometimes allow you…
to pass by the table “covertly”
as if you are a passerby in your own country
without granting you even
a single meal of dignity.

So listen well:

Ramadan has ended.
And time has ended.
And the theater of our respect for you… has ended.

A piece of advice… before the ledger closes:

The account is no longer individual…
today the account is Palestine.

Dismount…
and leave with the remnants of your face.

Leave… and take your armored cars
Leave… and take the lying Layla and her tales
Leave… and take your preacher… the master of the impostors
Leave… and take your jesters and wooden toys
and leave this table… before it is overturned.

Because what you do not wish to see… has begun.

The people of Palestine…
and the heroes of Fatah…
are no longer on the sidewalk.

They are now… around the place.
Surrounding it…
not with your rifles
but with unwavering patriotism
and with minds that hold advanced degrees
and with a will that knows well
that Fatah was not created to be a table…
but to be a liberation movement.

Leave Fatah to us…

Let us rebuild its unity
let us return it to the people
let us end the occupation…
not adapt to it as you do.

And hold fast, oh homeland…
and saddle your horse, oh Fatah