Gaza returns

I sat with my grandmother and talked.

She is Palestinian and I am South African.

She holds my hand as we speak.  Hers are always cold. Mine warm. She likes this.

We speak of the great tragedy.

She cries and tells me the story of how they were forced to leave.

The blood.

The guns.

The guts.

The refugee camp.

The drones.

The bombs.

The running.

The starvation.

….

I’ve heard this story over and over again.

I see the video’s and the posts and the news stories and the pictures, I hear the stories.

I’m waiting for the day that I hear something different, that I see something different, that Palestine is in Peace, that it has returned to the hands of it’s people.

I want to hear of the groves.

Of the people

Of the children running freely, playing in the street.

Of buildings being rebuilt.

Of old men sitting with arghile and tea, laughing

Of People dancing at weddings.

Of women preparing food, teasing, laughing

Of the old city in peace and tranquility.

This is the stories that I want to hear.

This is the dream I have.

This should be all of our dream.

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