Years ago, I was adamant I’d never write about the war that took place in Bosnia in my infancy. I found the topic passé and though it had nothing to do with me. Poetry laughed at my hubris. Who among us, at any given moment, can know the exact topography of our inner lands, their distant horizons and varying climates? The first poem, My Father’s Skin Looks Like the Surface of the Moon, emerged from an unknown region within me and made me confront what lay there—the ghosts and monsters in the dark valleys of the repressed. If this poem captured the movement of the unconscious, the second one, After Bombardment, was written in full sobriety, as I, along with the rest of the world, witnessed the annihilation of Gaza. I offer both poems as small acts of solidarity with the Palestinian people and their struggle. I do so humbly, and not without trepidation, knowing full well just how inadequate poems are in this moment, and how much more is required of us. I will reiterate here what I’ve already shared in private conversations: we should all strive to conduct ourselves, in our thoughts and in our actions, in such a way that would it make possible to one day look a Palestinian in the eye without crumbling in shame. Now and always—free Palestine!