Where is my home?
Is it the land, الأرض, my ancestors lived, loved, gave birth and died?
The home my grandparents built with their calloused hands under the sweltering شمس ?
Is it the تراب that is nourished by my ancestors’ decomposed flesh?
The question of home itches my skin.
كفر كنّا feels like home.
فلسطين is my ancestral homeland.
And yet the souls which shepherd the town are darkened. Hurt. Hurting.
Can we blame them?
They are intergenerational victims of one إحتلال or another.
They are victims of one institutionalised religion or another.
They are victims of state-sponsored ghetto violence, nationalistic tendencies and pervasive ideologies.
And yet so too, are they perpetrators of these things.
The cycle is never ending.
The politician who campaigned to end corruption takes bribes under the table.
The rebellious teenage girl has grown into a mother who imposes stricter rules.
There is no greater tragedy.
There is a reason the genre of our films are some variation of tragedies:
Tragic dramas, tragic comedies, tragic thrillers.
We are a tragic people; We are a tragedy.
And yet- Australia is sterile in comparison.
There is a lack; and those who have never experienced it surely do not miss it.
A lack of ثقافة;
A lack of community;
A lack of art, history, philosophy.
In its place you will find goal-setting and productivity.
In its place you will find small talk and distance. Networking. Traffic.
Busy. دائماً busy.
In searching for connection and community you may lose yourself.
And in finding it, you will find yourself again.
It’s a cycle that makes you ill.
And yet I feel lost.
فلسطين is a tragedy and Australia is sterile.
I suppose I am cursed and privileged to live in the space in between;
Homesick here, homesick there.
