Homes within the Al-Amari refugee camp in Palestine. Cooking Musakhan, a famous Palestinian dish of baked bread, chicken, suman, and onions on my “Aunt” Sabah’s kitchen floor.
Warm home, cold floors
Tall stairs, no refrigerator doors
Onions and tomatoes in the stairway
One trip up and back
Only once a day
I made that trip in a matter of minutes
I can be daughter number eight
He says to let me know I’m welcome
But I know I am a stranger
I don’t want to look around
I don’t want it to feel like a display
His eyes are earnest
His eyes are like his children’s
Hurting, sick
My Arabic flows
The interpreter’s English does not
Am I missing anything valuable?
I have his eyes
Prescription medicines are pulled from the shelves
The prices read to me
That’s not what I need to see
But that’s what he wants me to see
He’s trying to make me see
Medicines for the eyes
The hospital is too far away
Surgeries every year
The house is small
There is no coffee to greet me
But bread gets left on the front stoop
Thank God
There are nice people here
They give Zakat
We take care of each other
When the UN cannot
