I’m praying, between my people, in my place. Breathing the air my ancestors breathed before, the same air that smells like their blood, their cries.
The same place that heard their prayers, tragic stories. Stories of murder; women and children doing the same things, dying the same way, spelling the same words, cooking the same food, feeling the same.
Me and my friends live here, some abroad. Some pray anywhere, but I pray here. In my home.
I’m not interested in street plays. I don’t know how people get used to acting, that they even share their talents in a locality other than a stage. But they act in front of eyes, and that’s a good thing for their benefit, at least I guarantee that they take breaks writing the scenarios; the untalented scenarios.
Talent; seemingly. How they say in international conferences that religious tolerance is their thing. And I? Me and my friends are out of the audience? And the scenario? Where are we? Aren’t we people with religion? Aren’t we praying according to a religion?
(Palestinian muslims were banned from praying in Al-Aqs’a mosque since last friday)