Write down!
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth is coming after the summer.
Does that anger you?

Write down!
I am an Arab,
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry.
I have eight children
I get them bread,
Clothes and books
from the rocks…
I do not beg for charity at your doors
Nor do I humble myself
at your doorstep.
Does that anger you?

Write down!
I am an Arab.
I have a name without a title,
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged.
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras,
Before the pines, and the olive trees,
And before the grass grew.

My father…
descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class.
And my grandfather…
was a farmer,
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read.
And my house
is like a watchman’s hut
Made of branches and cane.
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!

Write down!
I am an Arab.
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children,
And you left us and all my grandchildren
Nothing but these rocks.
Will your government take them too,
As is being said?

So!
Write down on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people,
Nor do I encroach.
But if I become hungry,
The usurper’s flesh will be my food.
Beware…
Beware…
Of my hunger,
And my anger!