15 minutes outside and you will drown in the tears of Ramallah. She is glowing with confusion and smeared with the pollution of politics. Lost in her emotions we shiver and warm our hearts with heat artificially replacing what once was tradition. As Ramallah cries, less people frequent her. They run from her. They go back to their villages and talk about how cold she was.
But what about us who have to stay here? What do we call home except the roads repaved so diplomats have a more comfortable ride, the spots where old houses now have four stories built atop , and all the English scarring the face of abused Arabs?
We know Ramallah because she is inside of us, and we cry with her and wander in her streets trying to set her free. We walk through one memory best known by constant recitation, turning the corner where the son has inherited his father's shop, and we look for our grandmothers and grandfathers now in a place overcome with the paintbrush of foreign taste and normalization between vendors of coffee and spices.
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We know Ramallah because she is inside of us, and we cry with her and wander in her streets trying to set her free. We walk through one memory best known by constant recitation, turning the corner where the son has inherited his father's shop, and we look for our grandmothers and grandfathers now in a place overcome with the paintbrush of foreign taste and normalization between vendors of coffee and spices.
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