"Where to go back to? Where do they and we go back to?"
I wrote these last two lines in a recent poem, thinking about my home and the fate of Palestinians living under oppression. In some way, they give me a clearer image of my home, a home that has always remained in the air, both geographically—a highland strip—and ancestral roots—a group of oppressed people. Then there are other homes, spontaneous anchors that come and go, things that are no longer here, things that exist in memory; amidst them, I see a small fragment of their pain. Above all, how can my home be shared with their home? What dreams will heal the wounds, not only theirs but also those of many others?