As the time nears that I must leave Ramallah, I feel a lump swelling in my throat. I will miss this place more than I could have ever imagined….
I will miss the men at the market by my apartment that make me come inside when they see me waiting for a taxi, so that they can stand outside in the heat and flag one for me, and then negotiate the price to make sure I’m not overcharged. I will miss Dr. Fathi (Santa Claus) and his wife Mona, who makes dishes I wouldn’t touch in the States… yet I haven’t disliked one thing she has cooked. I will miss Yazan, Sereen and Tarek, without whom my experience in Ramallah would have been stunted. I will miss walking home through the winding streets of the old city to the open roads and sprawling hills, even though it leaves my feet screaming and legs burning. I will miss the stories that everyone seems to have… of tragedy and injustice, no matter how much it breaks my heart. I will miss the little girls in Jenin, who line up to shake my hand or kiss my cheek. I will miss the sunsets over a land which harbors such important and captivating history, yet bears the scars of occupation, hate, mistrust, and injustice.
Palestine has grown inside of me, and its roots are digging deeper and deeper within me.
“If the olive trees knew the hands that planted them, their oil would become tears.” -Mahmoud Darwish
