The empire asked for us to register our identity.
145 kilometers,
15 checkpoints.
Every blockade,
Joseph was stopped and frisked,
and I was undressed.
They would ask,
“What good can come from a man
whose lineage is from Bethlehem?”
But we persisted.
We would wait for hours,
I would feel the groans,
but they would subside.
We arrived at Checkpoint 300,
the other side would be safe.
But now, the pain did not relent.
I looked to Joseph,
he knew.
He yelled to the crowd,
they made way,
for they knew.
We pushed to the front.
The soldier,
my age,
looked at me.
He held his “made in USA” weapon tighter.
Joseph spoke to him in Hebrew,
“Shalach et ami.”
I writhed in pain.
The pressure,
fluid dripped from my legs,
clear to bright red,
succumbed to unconsciousness.
I woke up in the cave,
a keffiyeh wrapped around a life,
my son.
Hima Bindu Thota is a surgical resident at Rutgers New Jersey Medical School and a recent graduate from Duke Divinity School.
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