There is a shadow in her room; it traverses the cracked walls and holed ceiling. At night it hides maybe in the remnants of her closet, maybe under the bed with tattered sheets, maybe it disappears, she does not know where it lurks, perhaps inside her heart. It dances on her walls, expanding, shrinking, attacking,Continue reading “Sixty-Seven”
You are the shadow in the back of my eyes Permanently imprinted on my retina Like a polaroid picture that never fades You are the mist of hot water droplets Condensing on my body Sliding down my neck Traversing the fullness of my curves You are the echoes at the end of my day, BouncingContinue reading “Shadow”
A flower stretches its neck in the sun, Anthers protrude rigidly beyond its petals, Waiting expectantly for the bird A Sunbird hovers in the garden Flutters from one flower to the other Its feathers glisten iridescent blue. Pollen scatters from its wings falling into the troughs of longing stoma The roses whisper for it toContinue reading “Sunbird”
As I try to make sense of the world, the kitchen seems to be the only place I have control, and the exhale of fresh qatayef makes me feel more safe and more at home than ever before.
Death will lurk around the corner of every street, every harah and every family. If illness is the nightside of life, then night has definitely fallen on Palestine and it may be a long time before the sun shines again.
Happy had whiffs of sour on the edges, but was perfectly sweet in the center. It had the laughter of children growing up, the excitement the first slice carried with it as Mama lifted it expertly out of the pan.
What if Handala met Harry Potter?
As my day starts and my level of stress shoots to star high levels, the piled undone laundry starts to develop an attitude, and the unprepared lecture notes start to guilt trip me into wondering what kind of person I have become. What happened to the talented, smart, intelligent, career oriented, size 8 wearing, 15 km running woman I once was?
You wait for your dreams, you wait for the electricity to return, you wait for the winter to pass, you wait for the summer to come…Welcome to Palestine!
Dedicated to all women runners. Actually to all women out there who seem to always be running to something or from something. Here is to running towards your dreams and not away from your fears…
Back when I was commuting between Abu Dis and Ramallah daily, and most especially when I was pregnant with twins and my belly was doing all the driving, I was stopped on my way home every day to be on the Jaba Checkpoint and asked where I was going… Everyday I had to fight the urge to say Paris!
I found happy unhindered me lost between question marks and exclamation points. I found ME in writing. Writing was an old hobby that was pushed away with structures, reactions and jarring scientific literature. But thankfully, gratefully, writing found me and saved me.
As we age, we pursue cooking to replicate those dishes in the hopes of reviving childhood memories and all the feelings that come with them, and in the hopes that we can create similar experiences for our own children. Food is, therefore, not just sustenance, and our journeys into our kitchens are not only a daily chore to put food on our family tables, but rather a deliberate, creative process in which memories, love, belonging, loss, celebration, and a sense of identity are created and engrained for both those of us who cook and those who eat.