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In August 2014, Israel bombed my university’s administration building. The English department was turned into a ruin. My graduation ceremony got postponed. Families of the dead attended, to receive not a degree, but a portrait of their child.
One day, we will be born again when you’re not there. Because this land knows us. She is our mother. When we die, we’re just resting in her womb until the darkness is cleared.
Why is it when I dream of Palestine, that I see it in black and white?
People say silence is a sign of consent. What if I’m not allowed to speak, my tongue severed, my mouth sewn shut?
Though we all have very different stories, as Palestinians our stories are the same in many ways. I think it’s like we are living in a grave: we are not dead, we are going about our daily business, but in a grave. We are living in place of a dead person. I know that’s contradictory.
