“Why you go?!” the waiter asks. I was sitting in a coffee shop, using their electricity when our own home lacked it. It was geting late, I was ready to sleep.
“I have to get home,” my answer.
“Hello,” a woman approaching me says. How do I know her? She sits down, asking “What’s your name?”
So I don’t know her yet. We exchange names.
“Why you go?” she asks as I pack up my bag. I explain I’m heading home.
“But it’s my son’s birthday!” she protests, gesturing toward a table which waiters are busy dressing with balloons. “Please stay. Just a few minutes,” she insists. The few minutes lapse into conversations with her family, with another family nearby, all curious as to why internationals have come to Gaza now when the world has forgotten Gaza. All are welcoming.