Monday, August 3, 2009
“How old is this Palestinian boy?” She asks her friend, they sit sipping hot dark coffee under the Middle Eastern sun.
Some young students pass by wearing the khuffiyeh or the Palestinian scarf that’s black and white, now comes in many colors at the mall normally with a Che Guevara poster behind on the wall behind the manikin.
“21. He has organized protests in which hundreds have come to, he did this alone. He invited political speakers that are known nation-wide. Alone. He publishes in a local newspaper on the plight of the Palestinian people. Alone. He raises money when crisis hits in the camps such as during the Nahr El-Bared situation in which hundreds of Palestinians were displaced. Alone. He goes to camps regularly during the year and volunteers his help in all kinds of areas ranging from education to cleaning up houses. Alone.”
He passes by. Wearing the khuffiyeh. Real. Straight up man in there.
Tw.en.ty-Won. For real?
That khuffiyeh, makes sense on him.
She hears her friend talk. She looks up in the distant horizon: “woman, I can’t remember what I was doin’ when I was 21. Probably buying lip-gloss”.
Straight up. Makes you think, doesn’t it.