The Dirt Road: A Short Statement on the Occupation of Palestine
(written from the perspective of a Palestinian boy)
By Ethar Hamid
The dirt road near my house is nothing special (of course). It is narrow, and paved by the footprints and tread-marks of passers-by’s headed to the small marketplace of the neighbourhood. In the grass along the dirt road, small pink flowers bloom. When I was little, I used to pick the flowers and give them to my mom. (She loved them, as most moms would.) I walked the non-special road on my way to the marketplace, many times. My friends and I rode our bikes over it on our way to the other blocks of our neighbourhood. The road was something familiar—something I never dreamed would leave me.
The dirt road is gone, now. So is our home. So is everyone else’s home, in the neighbourhood. Occupation. Evacuation. Construction. (Loss. Unjustified goodbyes. Sadness.)
Though it may seem silly (considering the more potent misfortunes that I experienced with leaving home), I can’t help but remember the dirt road, near my house. Every once in a while, I remember that I won’t ever walk it, again. I won’t ever see it—its brown pebbles and dark footprints contrasted with the innocent blue sky above it, and the deep green growth, around it. That loss is hard to come to terms with, for some reason.
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