Suhmata: The Play, the Project, and the Tragedy

It was harvest. They were gathering wheat.
Grinding it and baking it right there on there on the bayder.
Smell of fresh brend, all over the mountains.

A little boy - Anwar was his name - saw it first.
A cloud of dust down by Sahmatah's south road.

The boy was scared.
he said I hope it doesn't reach us.
His father said It's just the wind.
But the boy heard a sound.
A crying sound, he thought.

And his father said It's just the wind.
But his father thougth to himself
Please God, take that dust
away from my family's eyes,
turn this evil wind back where it came from!
And he said Come on son, we have work to do.

But they couldn't, because the cloud came closer.
And it wasn't the wind or any wild horses.
It was just a long line of people.
Men and woman and children
carryig possessions on their backs.

But you never told me about any of this. Why not?

If someone stole your pants, would you run down the street showing off your naked legs? If your wife were raped, would you shout it from the rooftops?
Anyway, it's not like we were special. It was the same all over Palestine. four hundred villages. same story everywhere.

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