Traveling this morning, passing by security, the lady wants to make pleasant conversations. She asks, "Where are you from?"
I hesitate a bit, it's the airport after all, I wonder if I should mention my official legal status of "stateless refugee"? But no, she's asking where I'm from. "I'm Palestinian", I say
"Oh", she answers cheerfully. "So you're flying back home"?
I don't remember what I reply. This is how everyday, pleasant conversation can be triggering. I hate this.
I don't remember what I reply. This is how everyday, pleasant conversation can be triggering. I hate this.
My flight was delayed, I sat down and pondered. Is Palestine in my psyche a place, or a cause?
Regardless, to me, it has been a home not in being a place, but in being a cause.
Regardless, to me, it has been a home not in being a place, but in being a cause.
"So you're flying back home?"
I can't go home.
I'm always going home.
I'm always home.
I can't go home.
I'm always going home.
I'm always home.
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