I read about the cafés that embraced writers in Montmartre in Paris, and the alleys that inspired painters in Florence. I read about the marble benches in Piazza San Marco (St. Mark’s Square) in Venice where poets wrote their love letters, and about the houses overflowing with stories in Berlin. I read about the open windows overlooking the sea in Tangier where Paul Bowles wrote his texts and about the white houses of Santorini which were turned into open studios flooded with blue light.
I read about the shores of Rio de Janeiro where singers wrote their lyrics on the sand and then left it for the tide to carry it away. I read about the island of Crete whose ancient myths shaped the memory of European literature, and about Edinburgh Castle overlooking the city as though it were an eternal guardian of stories. I read about Notre Dame Cathedral whose stones were turned into a whole novel.
I read about Dubrovnik, which became a stage for legends upon its stone walls, and about the island of Mykonos where painters sketched their colorful canvases from the footsteps of the passersby. I read about the beaches of Cape Town where the oceans stand side by side like two interwoven poems, and about the churches of Prague whose bells have long awakened the poets each morning. I read much, much more.
My wishes consume my thoughts. I always ask myself: “Will I ever fulfill my dream one day?!
Shall I have the chance to visit these beautiful places that I read about in the stories?!
Shall I receive an invitation for dinner from an Italian painter, or attend a book signing ceremony in the Netherlands, or a wedding celebration in Antalya, or…!
I do not want to think about it anymore. I decided to head to the sea of my city which the Israelis are threatening to take away from me. This is the only destination left for me for now.
There, I heard the songs and offered my smiles to the faces of the passersby. I danced with the waves; I jumped over and escaped them. The waves chased me. I got wet, but my heart was full of joy. I returned home, neither defeated nor sad, but rather myself again. Me, the one who knows no language, but that of love.
Wa’ad M. AboZaher
22/08/2025
(Translated by Palestinian Stories)
