Saturday, 19 January 2013


This is a small excerpt from a piece of short prose fiction (non-linear) I wrote a few years ago. It is set in a Palestinian refugee camp during one of the darkest years of the Lebanese Civil War. I would like to go back and rework it - perhaps extend it into a novel one day.

To my brother Jamil Suleiman, 23-08-1982. 
September dawns 
Our mother weeps into the clothes she mends 
The dough she folds 
The mint she washes 
The letters you send 
She is lost without 
Your voice 
Your gait 
Your embraces


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