As I listened to my family speak of returning, it became my dream, and my way back was always for me a matter of time. Nothing seemed more beautiful to me than going to Palestine, and losing my eyes in corridors of endless olive trees without being concerned about their return. I always remember the first time I went to Bethlehem, and saw my name on a mosaic plate on the wall, later on store signs, bakeries, a hotel, an arak bottle... I come from this land and my name and family was that proof to me. Once we are at peace with a part of our  identity then we can start settling the other sides.

Although most of the time, I feel like we are hunting for the hunter who tried to capture us. Our endless discussion which never ceases to bring us to where we originally started~ continues every time we speak. We keep asking ourselves how we can be so Palestinian  and so American, and so whatever else that lies at the borders. Well,  why do we only have to be one person? Why do we only have to have one homeland?

There is the homeland inside of us, the one we inhabit, the one in our dreams, maybe others. I forever thought of myself as being in the frame, when in fact, I was also everywhere in the painting... and I think it is the same for you. As I observe and continue to observe you searching and discovering, being lost then regaining the surface of yourself, disappearing and reappearing, breathing and remaining completely breathless,  I have come to see a pattern-one that exist not only in you but in myself and in most of the Palestinians, most of the Arab-Americans that I meet. In our journey to finding this identity that we think can be settled, we confuse ourselves for I have come to believe that we will forever travel in margins. But margins of our own. And those. margins are states where eternity also breaths.

And dearest Lisa, there is poetry. As you know, Darwish's work has always elevated me. And as I continue to read and reread his work, I have found an infinity after every one of his words. And as I lose and find myself in those infinities, I have come to discover whatever it is about poetry that I have always wanted to meet. I have come to meet the petal and the stone. I have come to meet the pure springs of poetry. A land open to us entirely.

     In poetry we are everything and everyone that we are. A country between the real and reality. A universe of bread and water,  imagination and the irnagined, cosmic unity in the world of  words the harmony of words with no end. In poetry we find each other and lose each other. We meet love between ourselves. We cross at times Our past or our future-we forget the leaking of water and remember only the verses in its drops. Lisa. remember when we saw each other in the middle of the river. the river between Palestine and poetry... remember how the sky was memory, how green, so green it all was... I remember this homeland. How can I forget it. How can we ever forget ho\v it sings to us, opens its featured arms, telling us to stay. As poets Our words are Our home, poetry Our homeland. And so how fortunate we are to have found this placet this tiny place. this tiny infinity.

This might all seem contradictory and confusing-well it is and it isn't depending on how you look at things. It's not confusing if you consider that anything pertaining to identity is a bag of contradictions. It is confusing if you consider that such opposing sides should not exist inside of someone. In my case, I have finally come to the end, although deep inside I know that the end al ways seems to be the beginning of everything in my life. Can anything really be defined and remain fixed? Isn't everything always changing? Even as I claim to be an Arab-American that definition is changing as I write. Is it the passport one holds? In that case, when speaking of poetry, why is Sargon Boulos never referred to as an Arab-American poet although he is a US citizen? Is it because he writes in Arabic? In that case, is it the linguistic patterns or the cultural implications in poetics which determine where we belong? What is the real definition of an Arab-American? an Arab~ American poet? Should there be fixed rules if someone cJaims this identity? Can anyone contest another's claim even if that person doesn't always fit in the margins of that inconsistent definition? The fact that inconsistency exists concerning identity, doesn't that in a way answer the question that nothi can be categorized so definitely?

I dreamt of going back, today I dream for those who dream of going back. I said I know who I am-that I am an Arab~ Palestinian and that has not changed, except I am al American, French, and anything else that I feel that I am dreamt of going back, and will, maybe. And so in fact Lisa have resolved the problem which has no real solution. As f you, even the silence beyond you is Palestinian. I will alwa remember that afternoon, the winter of our first encounter, your   Palestinian map around your neck, telling me who you are.

If you ask me now what being Palestinian means to me? I wi ll say it means being from somewhere where I constantly have extra luggage, constantly live on the edges of what I believe and what I think I believe... being Palestinian is always: living in between skylines. It is "wandering one's whole Ii among foreign tribes..." .