A poem by Jess Semaan

Hummus is now Khummus

And Ghazza is now Gaza

Ghazza is now a mass grave

And the sea is a high rise view, of a European traveler.

The audience is lazy

The visitors are lazy

The travelers are lazy

And the settlers are cruel.

Is a story always propaganda?

Who do we write for except ourselves?

I press lemons from my neighbor's tree

I pour in tahini from the Arab store

Except the tahini is not Arab

Sprinkle coarse salt from Greece

Can I walk from Beirut to Jerusalem?

Or will Beirut to Jerusalem be forever a name of a book I was once required to read?

I take three flights to return home.

I still wear a dress in Beirut

For Beirut is festive even in death.

The lemon, the tahini, a can of Whole Foods chickpeas, the greek salt

Hummus is four ingredients

Khummus is a stolen dish

I find unexpected pleasure emphasizing the ح in hummus

A ح will never be a خ

And the hummus will never be yours

And the land will never be yours

And the story will never be yours

Here is a passed down secret

Put an ice in cube the hummus as soon as it’s done

And let it melt

And here you have your creamy hummus

I see avocado khummus, chocolate khummus, pesto khummus

at the store.

Appropriation is not innovation.

The other secret to hummus is

To be eaten the same day

Here is the truth about hummus

it is not Israeli

Never will be