Simple Dreams …
I just love … how the roads I rode, the mountains that I have climbed, and the vines that gazed at me are all … all … paved, made, and irrigated respectively with simple dreams. It was not an extra mile that I have walked … not a hundred, not even a million, and after today … I humbly shall keep walking.

Today was not the usual day, very little sleep and a lot to burden that simple mind of mine. A lot of negativity in the air, and uncertainty of thoughts. It is hard to go to bed knowing that something was wrong, and I it is always hard to wake up knowing that even if the sun is shining your heart is feeling a little gloomy. No AC and barely any breeze coming through the small windows at the office I moved to two days ago, yet there was something in the air … something was coming my way. After my late morning coffee and my long awaited cigarette I have decided to welcome it with arms wide open, after all why question with a “why?” when you can exclaim with a “why not!?”.

His face was pale; voice was fading just like the inverted Nike sign on his tarnished torn t-shirt. “Please buy a CD, for God’s sake take one, it’s only 10 shekels … do you cheer for Germany? I have a small flag for you … it’s 10 shekels but I will give it to you for 5 just buy it … buy anything! …” my ears moved to the angry drivers honking their horns at the soldier standing at the checkpoint. I couldn’t hear what Hasan was saying, I knew Hasan since I was 15. I wrote about him for The Youth Times. He was in 3rd grade then, he had beautiful copybooks that he kept under the traffic light he used to sell candy at during the days, and he said that he was doing great in school and I listened to him reciting some beautiful 3rd grade books poetry that I still remember till this day “Bilad Al ‘Urb Awtani” i.e. “Arab Countries are my Home”, a moving poem by Syrian poet Fakhri Al-Barudi that speaks of how “we” the Arabs -that is- are united by our language, and not divided by our differences but on the contrary celebrate our diversity, well … as I said it’s just 3rd grade books poetry like all the things mentioned in 3rd grade books … simple dreams … written. Hasan promised me that he will stay in school and expressed his deepest wishes to become a doctor one day and save lives, just like what that doctor at the village clinic did to his baby sister the night before our interview. On the car’s left mirror I see Hasan, a man now, fighting with the other kids to “make the sale” to the young man behind the Armani shades in the brand new black Mercedes E Class listening to an English song and nodding his head high on the melody and Hasan is screaming “10 SHEKELS!! PLEASE” … So much for broken promises O’ Hasan. I just wonder what happened to his 4 brothers and baby sister who is probably not a baby anymore and his sick dad who was fighting cancer at the time, and the kind old lady that would always buy his candy just to make sure he was ok and away from harms way, I wonder, I wonder. I pressed my lips, and looked away. The driver was anxious, checking his “destroyed” mobile phone that had tons of adhesive tape keeping it together, but thank God for Fairuz singing of love and beauty … with that angelic voice putting a smile on our faces in the killing heat and strangling traffic. The driver’s mobile is ringing, he take a look to the back seats of the bus where no one is even minding him looking aimlessly out of the window, and takes a plunge down to pick the apparently “Pronto” call. I was curious, but I knew eavesdropping was wrong –that’s what mom said- but I think it was ok if the sound was leaking faintly through the adhesive tape, right? “Weinak?” said the soft voice on the phone, “I am working my love” Khader replied, “Any news?!?!” he added. “I heard him saying to mom last night that he will reject you if you do not get the money on time, … honey this is the 4th time, he wants you to give up!” Sumaya said with pain in her voice. Khader takes a look at me, he knows I can hear them but it’s ok, Khader’s dad used to drive my brothers and I to school when we were young, and enjoyed long street football games in front of Sumaya’s house … his childhood sweetheart. Funny business goes on when Cupid starts tripping I believe. “I will do it my love, I swear to God I will do it this time, I didn’t have any sleep for the past 7 months and I borrowed some money from my uncle in the U.S. you know he lives in New York, and has a huge supermarket and said he can lend me the money … I will make you my wife and he will not reject me, trust me, for one last time Sumaya please … “. The truth the truth I seek, the truth the truth I speak … simple dreams is what I see. We are finally free; the soldier decides it was ok for us to pass through. Yes the face I was wearing matched that grumpy face in the photo on my ID card the flesh and blood that make up my body are “O.K.” to go through the metal detector giving the blonde female soldier behind the bullet proof glass a meaningless nod, yet the flesh and blood of the burdened pregnant lady are to stay behind those flaming steel bars on the rotating gate because she wasn’t “O.K.”. “It’s ok, hang on” I tell the pregnant lady and gather my stuff from the x-ray machine’s conveyor belt and as I was at it, I bagged her hopes and her dreams to take them where she wants to go … anywhere other than this notorious checkpoint. I grab my cane, and shoulder my bag with my laptop, headphones, notebooks, and their dreams and hopes. I need to take the next bus to Jerusalem. The sun is setting, and the orange rays beautifully strike the edges of my golden Ray Bans, I take a deep breath, sink in the smell of exhaust gases, dust, and Jerusalem that distinct the air, and add greatly to its effect. I look at the horizon, blue eyes have been innocently haunting me all day long, and once again, the thought draws a smile on my face. I walk to the bus door. It is still closed, waiting for more people to be freed from the steel gates. I notice my reflection on the glass door. There I am smiling and happy, I count my blessing every night and morning you know … I have got to be happy, but no one would mistake the pain I had injected into my genuine smile. Perhaps it was the memories with Hasan, or maybe being unable to help Khader … maybe. Maybe, it’s the hope to live in a place where “checkpoint” is a banking term, “corruption” is a crime and not a star on the forehead of some people, where Hamza wouldn’t have to work two hectic jobs and suffer severe back pain to provide to his wife and children, where I can raise my flag next to those of Germany, Argentina, and the “World Cup Nations” and not having me arrested or thrown into jail, or in a place where babies do not have to taste suffering and pain while suckling their thumbs in their mother’s wombs, and perhaps some place where I can make it to my friend’s wedding on time and see him laugh and dance hoping to change the world we live in with his little scribbles on a newspaper column and call for non-violence. The truth the truth I seek, the truth the truth I speak … simple dreams is all I see … simple dreams is ALL I dream.

Dear Reader, … this is the truth, a small part of the truth, and NO, some just can’t handle the truth … so help them God.

This is not based on a true story … true stories are based on this.

Cast in their day to day names and titles:

Hasan - The slumdog.
Khader - The grumpy bus driver.
Um Abed - Pregnant Mother of 4.
Hilmi - The broom, dear friend, and colleague.