The Palestinian Hands

Since December 1st, 2018, I have slept in 20 beds, and taken 16 flights, and 13 trains. I am exhausted, and I am so happy to be home tonight.

These last 146 days took me well beyond my comfort zone in every way imaginable; imagine that, considering that I already have a pretty wide wing-span. While I can say that I’ll travel again before this sabbatical is over (inshAllah), it won’t be as I’ve done these past five months. Since the plan is no planning, I’m not sure when or to where it’ll be, my primary present focus being the month of Ramadan. Stay tuned! (Me included.)

One small point tonight, before bed. Seated on my flight, I realised that of the multitude of things which I don’t understand is how time functions. I am a door away from December 1st, 2018, but a lifetime apart from the reason I took this sabbatical. I will never once comprehend how time can simultaneously fold onto itself as though 146 days feels like two hours, while also feeling like years exist between now and then.

Time, pretending it is a Truth, is the biggest liar we know.

Today, I am grateful for:
1. My mother’s hands. One thing that has never once felt less, was how long it had been since I ate from her Palestinian hands.
2. Safe travels home. Including the arrival of my 23.5 kg bag that I unpacked as soon as I got home and nearly threw over my balcony because I don’t wish to see it again for a very long time.
3. That I have both a physical space to call ‘home’, and hearts of beloveds who equally fill this label. I practically ran down the hall to my door, as certainly as I will be bowling people over with hugs.

Ottawa | April 25, 2019

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