The old man sat on a crate that had once carried Jaffa oranges, though the wood was now gray and splintered, weathered by years of sun and exile. He was in a café in Ramallah, but his eyes were looking at something the other patrons could not see.
“I am from there, I am from here, but I am neither there nor here.” darwish poems
The old man watched him, sipping his coffee. He was tired. He had carried the weight of a homeland for eighty years. But as he watched the boy’s hand move across the paper, the burden lightened. The old man sat on a crate that