[Literary] 𝗔𝘃𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗮 (𝗔 𝗣𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗚𝗮𝘇𝗮)

 by Ayesha Cala

𝐌𝐚𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐚 𝐤𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚, 𝐧𝐚𝐩𝐮𝐧𝐨 𝐤𝐚 𝐬𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐲𝐚; 𝐀𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐢𝐲𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐚 𝐤𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐨.

Mary gives birth to Jesus in a stranger's stables. The first crib that she lays her son in is a manger. He is the ember of hope promised by God, the warmth that will bring the world salvation.

An idea of a nation is planted in the sharp corners of Palestine's ribcage. It claws itself from the inside out, breaking bones as it makes space for itself in the heart of its host. Blood pools in Palestine's waters as its people cross the borders away from the land of their birth.

The state of Israel is born. She is unapologetic and self-righteous, the flame that begins a forest fire.

Holy Mary, vessel of honour, did you ever thank the person who lent you their stables? Or did you curse them for not welcoming you into their home? For letting you give birth to the son of God on a patch of hay, surrounded by cattle and their filth?

𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰 𝐬𝐚 𝐦𝐠𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐧;

Mary flees Judea with her husband and son – the king had ordered the death of all boys no older than two years old. It is buried in the paragraphs; all the victims then called the first Christian Martyrs.

Israel has taken over more than half of Palestine. Over a million Palestinians lose their homes. Over fifty thousand lose their lives. It is lost to the glamour of the glory of God; after all, Israel is the Promised Land. Its title outshines its transgressions.

Holy Mary, queen of families, did you ever think of the mothers who lost their sons in place of you? Did you ever pray for their forgiveness? Or did you pray to thank God for blessing you with a safe escape? Did it haunt you to know that those children would never grow old enough to understand what it meant for them to die a martyr?

𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐛 𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐚 𝐬𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐲𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐨 𝐧𝐠𝐚 𝐬𝐢 𝐇𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐬;

Jesus becomes more than just the son of Mary. He leaves to preach the Word of his Father.

As a child, I was never made aware of the differences between the Israel of the Bible and the country of Israel. So, I lived in awe of the latter. The illusion shattered last year when what was first labelled as the conflict between Israel and Hamas became worldwide news, and the decades-long tyranny of Israel came to light.

Almost 200,000 Palestinians have died, and nearly two million are displaced. It becomes clear that this is no conflict; it is a genocide.

Forgive me as I reconcile the image of a country I was raised to adore with the things that I have learned: how could the people who followed a widely similar belief to mine, who lived with the holiest land in the heart of their country, act so blatantly contrary to the teachings of the Word.

Holy Mary, mother of our Saviour, did you know that when you first set your son down on the manger, a container of fodder for cattle to feed on, you'd set his path in stone? Did you know that he'd be consumed – his flesh as bread, his blood as wine – by people who have left what remains of the country they had stolen with more spilt blood than drinkable water?

𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚 𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐤𝐚 𝐬𝐚 𝐃𝐢𝐲𝐨𝐬;

Mary watches Jesus die on the cross. It is unnatural for a mother to outlive her child, but somehow, in this oddity, this cruelty, there is respite.

Jesus, the son of Mary, was buried whole. Even the men who laughed as they watched her son carry the cross, the sins of the world, were not cruel enough to take away that comfort.

Bombs fall over the innocence of Gaza, and children are buried in the rubble. I have watched enough footage of the aftermath to know that many of them are not found with intact bodies. I have watched enough mothers and fathers weep in grief with what remains of their little ones clutched in their shaking arms; hands turned red with their and their children's blood. I do not need to see more to know that many are never found.

Holy Mary, mother of mercy, did you ever find it in your heart to forgive the man who ordered your son's death? Would we know you differently if you were not given a body to bury? If you emerged from grief with no promise from your son of His return?

𝐈𝐠-𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐨 𝐦𝐨 𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐠𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐚; 𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐮𝐠 𝐬𝐚 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐚 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐨𝐧.

I hear some of the most publicly religious people I know talk about how Israel is in the right in all of this. After all, is Israel not the Holy Land chosen by God? Does the holiest land, Jerusalem, not sit in its breastbone? Does this not mean that they are always righteous in their actions?

I wonder if those people listen to the same gospel I hear in church every Sunday.

For months now, we have prayed for the safety of the people in Gaza. Not once has there been a mention of Israel. When I was younger, I was taught to pray for the sinners, for them to find the right path and for the Almighty to forgive them for their sins.


Some things cannot be forgiven.


Maybe all of this is pretentious for someone like me to write. I am not guiltless in this genocide, after all.

The first thing I am supposed to do when I wake up is pray. Instead, I scroll through TikTok. A seemingly entertaining video is cut short by a Palestinian crying to the camera and begging for help. I am startled by the reminder that in another part of the world, people are suffering unspeakable things. There is the guilt of forgetting and the helplessness of being unable to do more than spread the word, put my pen to paper, put my hands on the keyboard and write.

I write. I write something pretty and poetic enough to convince people to stick around and read, to remind and bring back to focus the tragedy that has faded into the background.

A poet writes to remember a young girl martyred in Gaza. She wanted to be one of the world's top violinists. A poet writes to pay respect to a fellow poet. He was a father and a teacher. His children live with his absence loud in their ears; they will not hear his voice again.

This poet is no different. I write a poem to remember that there are still those who need aid. I write a prayer to the people asking for help. I write an apology for the fact that I cannot do more than this.

I pray to the most human of the divinities and plead for Her guidance.


Holy Mary, pray for us.


Virgin Mary, graciously hear us.


Mother Mary, have mercy on us.

𝐀𝐦𝐞𝐧.