In a holy land resided a man, probably with dark hair and pale skin, who made a name for himself. He was known to face Earth in all her shapes, with one main mission in hand; to supply the village with figs (and olives at times). He was named أبو التين, or so the story goes, which translates into ‘The Father of Figs’. His sons, his grandsons, their sons, and even their daughters carried the name with them. And now, I carry it too.
This man’s name is a story, that we ought to tell and live. Another man, his descendant, recreates the sounds of his mills almost every week. He struts around the city’s west carrying his bottle of liquid gold as it glistens in the dusty sun, a fresh batch of figs on the other hand. At night, he clutches a key to that same holy land and dreams about all the things he would tell her. But now, his crops don’t bloom like they used to, his bottle is half empty and his keyhole has turned to rubble and dust.
Right to Return
Letter to Palestine
