Prose: Oslo’s Coffin: My Father and Palestine

Leila Farsakh

The smell of sadness overwhelms the place. Palestine is sad and so is my father.

For the first time I face the fact that my father might die and that his death will pain me. For the first time I confront the idea of his loss and the loss of Palestine. I no longer run away from it, no longer hide behind my anger in order not to face this loss. I have held so much anger against my father: anger for not having seen me, for all that cannot be said between . . .

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