Gaza City

Gaza City moaned. Voices without faces chanted Allah’s call to worship, 3:30 a.m. in Palestine—dawn in Mecca. I slept nude. Even the sheet was too warm. Throughout the city the sorrowful chants were answered in staggered repetition, like fugues. I fell back asleep and dozed through cocks crowing, doves cooing, birds chirping, and awoke soon after sunrise. In the early morning I loved sitting on my porch in a sundress, sipping a cup of tea. No one could see me and be scandalized. Islamic law dictated that a woman should be covered, and by the time the gate guard delivered my breakfast at 6:30 a.m., I was dressed in a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a blue linen jumper that dropped to my ankles.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.