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I’m being blinded by the light. It’s my earliest memory of me and my mother in the park in Hamas.

Did my mother ever mind being illiterate? I ask myself.  Then I see a set of images.

My father laughing at me when I say I want to study.

My daily prayer on my turquoise mat. Me deciphering the internet.

A rain of stones after the bombing.

Stacks of blue tax envelopes, throwing them to my daughter.

Rania’s face all red, yelling, as I run down the stairs,

‘When did you lose the eagerness to develop yourself?

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