The Kalaniot (poppy anemone) is a potent symbol for both Israelis and Palestinians: its red, white, and black petals and green stem match the colors of the Palestinian flag, while in the winter it famously blankets the Otef Azah region of Israel, precisely where the October 7 massacres occurred. Both peoples have since used this symbol in memorials, art, and rallies. This poem was also partially inspired by “A Soldier Dreams of White Lilies” by Mahmoud Darwish.
When Shall White Lilies Replace my Kalaniot?
She stands with a heart of Jerusalem stone,
And though she covers herself in the green of life and lines,
Her extremities are dyed red:
The red of Kalaniot, anemones.
Anemones planted by an enemy.
But for an enemy, the anemone means the same,
For the red of the anemone bridges all borders
And dyes all pure white blossoms red.
And this is why we exalt the Kalanit,
We, battle-hardened nations,
We, nations defined by our extremities,
We, a nation that crosses green lines, turns them red, and crosses those too.
The blood-red Kalanit blooms all over this wide, narrow land:
On one side, it springs up without warning,
In pleasant meadows where we once danced, and under the wheels of burnt-out buses.
And on the other side, it springs up each day, anxiously,
In empty olive groves and orange orchards, and under new rubble.
Anemones all across this narrow bridge.
She looks like a ladybug.
If only I could witness this lovely little flower,
And not think politics.
I’m told it means resilience, survival
But when will we not have to survive?
When will we simply live?
“Mother, mother, how long must we wait for the lilies to bud?”
A soldier dreams of white lilies
A poet, too
When shall white lilies replace my Kalaniot?
When shall a Kalanit no longer conjure this blood-red flower, but simply an anxious young bride?
When shall she dress herself in white robes for her wedding day?
When shall she break the glass, in memory of a city now healed?
When shall she lay a white calla lily on ancestors’ graves, their memory a blessing for peace?
When shall she soothe her red extremities with white gauze?
And when shall the blood find itself all absorbed, overcome, by the cloth that binds,
The lily-white cloth that seems so soft and weak, but is really so steadfast?
This will all happen someday,
Though I know not when.
Someday when I smell the lily on the breeze.
Someday when the Jaffa orange can be both a symbol, and also just a fruit.
Someday when the Kalanit in the field can look up at the tree above,
And see that the bird sitting on the olive branch
Is not a hawk, nor an eagle neither,
But a dove victorious,
Mighty beyond might,
Strong without strength,
Its wings carrying twin nations’ hopes and dreams,
Its crown as white as the lilies that now fill the field.