Things my father never told me A.K.A. Ramallah living A.K.A. A Palestinian wedding 1

It's 11:30am.
(downtown at night)
I wander about, walking from near the Municipal building by my Aunts house, to downtown near the circle and the lion in the center of the street. Right in front of me is a place called Stars & Bucks and it makes me laugh every time I see it.

Women and men mull about as a mans voice echoes through the stone streets from the Mosque a few block away. It's time to hear the call to prayer. There aren't many children in sight since they are still in school. Shop keepers yell out for potential buyers.

"Khamsa Shekel! Araba Shekel!"

They hold candy, koosa, hummus. They hold dreams, wishes, and far off desires.



My father never told me that Palestinian weddings are layered like cakes or onions or mountainous landscape, winding and lasting and going until the morning comes. The bride and groom wind down their new road together, a step at a time to be placed on a seat before the rest of us. Only women and children are allowed to be near the bride and groom for all this time, unless much later, when pictures and posing are introduced and every family member must bring a bit of gold, 4 kisses and a smile to the new bride and her groom.

My father never told me of the traditional wear women dress in. The colorful hijabs, the layers of gold upon their chests, their arms, their hands, their heads. Colors of bright blues and greens and yellows and reds. These women with their darkened eye lashes and red lips, thick white foundation on their cheeks and a twist of their hips. The dance they dance with their arms and hips hits beats to drums in the music. We watch, we clap, we laugh, we dance. So goes it at a Palestinian wedding.