Jiddo, I have lost count of the days. I have become haunted. Hunted. You refused the nationality and I refused the country. What if it’s someone I love next? I think of the pink living room; the ghosts who watch. I never thought before of those who made me until judgment sought its claim into me. It was a party, and I woke up crying for my brother. Laugh with me, I know you’re running late. The Palestinian sitting in his words more than ever before. I dream of my dead in Arabic. I dream of my dead in Arabic and hear all the dead of us echoing in the lilts of their voices. A man in my flat laughs at my accent. I am made spoiled, princess, bourgeois. All Nablus, waiting for my lost crown. We both know he’ll still kiss me in between the static. I go to your grave and find nothing. I go to my brother’s grave and find a well. I go to the land and find relief. I go to country and find self. Jiddo, it has been so long since I slept in the centre of violence. Jiddo, do you remember the years I begged to go back? The years when I didn’t? What is identity but a card? At a panel, they are fraught with third-worlds and I am simmering, a freshly slaughtered lamb, the rage roasting me tender. Arab with a passport. I turned my back to empire at fifteen. I fled at nineteen. Amman laughs, what do you mean you can’t talk to foreigners? All I taste is blood in my mouth constantly. I will die and still taste a drop of metallic; the hatred turned shrapnel. Jiddo, I have never not known myself and yet I want to tell you I keep reading Basel all over again. Six months. Two hours. I have my found my answers. Despair is manufactured. My body still hanging on the baptism, dreaming of tearing the eye of the river open again. I demand a witness. I do not care about foreigners, their eyes, their mouths. Let war wash on their statehood; eradicate the button. They can never be as brave as you. Jiddo, I still love you. Jiddo, I understand now. Jiddo, what am I to do with all this rage?