Borderline

This is the travelling journal of a young girl living in Palestine, trying to make it across the border to Israel. A story of struggle, faith, power and determination in light of a real life struggle in the modern world.

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1. Fading Sun.

To you,

I am unsure to whom I should address this to, since these words are primarily written for myself. I suppose this was inspired by a book I read, well a diary to be honest. Anne Frank. She named hers Kitty, but I think that is too  infantile for my liking. For the mean time, I'll stick with you.

I have the urge to write; to tell my story. My mother always told me it was important to communicate. To never hold your peace and tell the world the truths they do not wish to here. My mother's correct, but she's also dead, my only assumption can be that the truth can only lead you so far. 

People always tell me that I look like her, but that I am also in possession of a rebel soul, such as hers. I've yet to truly discover what that means, but I'm hoping my travels will help me discover not only myself, but my mother within me. My time with her was short, but mashalla, I will be connected with her soon. 

I don't know the cause of her death, but the blazing guns that pass overhead every night provide many clues. There has been conflict ever since my arrival on earth. The ground I walk on is tainted with blood with the faint smell of courage and faith. The only peace I find is within these pages wrapped in my pillow when they found me. My father is nowhere to be found and I was brought up the Ammar family when I was around the age of five, when I was 18 I decided to leave and sow my roots elsewhere. My memories there were fond, but not enough to ground me here.

There has always been a calling within me. To move, to search, to yearn for the promise land. That's why I have to leave, but it's is a felony for me to drive here. My only method of transportation is to walk and with little money my travels do not lead me far. 

It's approaching midnight and I am currently situated in a women's shelter in a northern town of Nablus. There are women here with babies, torn, dirty flea ridden clothes, palms open begging for a lighter day. Many of them soiled with blood and despair. Their cries posses me, and even when I drift to sleep, I still hear the faint noises and these are the sirens that drive me on.  These women here are the reason my feet take the extra step out of this war zone. 

The moonlight is creeping in through a crack in the corrugated roof and there is a slight breeze lapping at my bed sheets. I cannot keep my eyes open any longer. I lay my head to earth, from whence I came.

As-Salamu Alaykum, Aidah

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