All in personal stories

Invisible Words in the Empty Air

Breakfast, then work and school. Back home, then dinner: cheeses, labne, cucumbers, shai maʿ naʿ naʿ (tea with mint). Four years inched by. No sound but the gentle smacking of lips, the mechanical sips of shai. Dina used to watch the steam from the shai, the fumes from the cigarettes her father smoked at the table (as everywhere else) and imagine it was Jibran’s ghost. Maybe Jibran would slip in to their noses, their mouths, and shoot to their ear canals, stopping their ears translucently. Then everything would seem still. Jibran could keep carving invisible words in the empty air. 

Passage to Palestine

As a kid, I always looked for Palestine on the map and was confused as to why I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on the atlas in class or in the textbooks.  Throughout my twelve years of public education, only my seventh-grade teacher went out of his way to educate students about something that was not even in the curriculum when it should have been.