The reality of a dream

I know this boy named Mohammed.

He made a journey from Gaza to the U.S. I met him when he was still a Gazawi living in Gaza. I followed him when he traveled to Egypt. And I've kept in touch with him as he has settled in the U.S.

Today, I asked him how his view of America has changed since he's actually experienced it. He doesn't like it now that he knows it.

I've often found that the "dream" of America is quite appealing to those who live outside--who are forbidden a ride in the amusement park of freedom that they consider the U.S. to be. For those who manage to get a ticket in, like Mohammed, that dream quickly atrophies into a reality that is much less attractive.

Being the charitable person I am, I spend much time breaking the fog machine, and convincing any dreamers that America is not that amusing. I've delightfully burst many fantasy bubbles.

I know this boy named Awni. He has burst those bubbles too.

Once upon a time, he made a journey from Ramallah to the U.S. He later returned to Ramallah. I met him after he had been through the U.S. experience.

We once discussed the idea of the U.S. that many Palestinians dream about. He told me this: "They think that when you arrive at the airport in the U.S., you'll have suitcases of money waiting for you"...to welcome you and help you start the process to success.

Oh what an illusion they keep in their minds! If they only lived in their dreamland, they'd realize the farce, and the dream will quickly lose its luster.

That is what this boy I know named Nasser keeps telling me--but about Ramallah. I met him in Ramallah, and he has never been anywhere else. "Reem," he tells me, "you will only like living in Ramallah until you are bitten by the reality of it." (He and others have tried to reciprocate the bubble-bursting.)

But my dream of Ramallah living is not Disneyland-ish, and there is no luster to dull. My vision includes the reality: the isolation, the 7awajiz, the chance of being stranded or beaten or arrested or denied. I do not fantasize about welcome baskets, filled with knafa and shekels, handed to me by the friendly Jewish boy and a smiling Palestinian girl couple who met in and have been trained to embody Seeds of Peace.

In fact, I make a point to dig the harsh Ramallah life realities into the crevices of my brain and my bones. And still, I dream about it, and I still want it.

You see, my dreamland Ramallah holds something that Mohammed's, Awni's, Nasser's, and other Palestinians' U.S. dreamlands can not include for them--roots.

In my dream, I'm given my right of return. My dream lets my soul settle in and sigh relief--like a worker who has finally reached home after a long day.

My dream takes my spirit back to its creation place: To the Palestine from which it was ripped before it ever got the chance to ripen--uprooted and tossed into a U.S.-based cadaver, which was greedily waiting to push out and blink first in Fairfax. In my dream, my yearning spirit is allowed to escort my body home--to feel the Beitilu wind caress my face with its gentle, olive-scented palms, like a mother embracing her long-lost child.

My dream permits my eyes to gaze upon the jbal that my father once ran toward while kicking his soccer ball; and to touch the olive trees that my grandfather once leaned against, seeking shade from the high noon sun; and to breathe the air that my great grandfather once summoned into his nostrils as he planted our waton. In my dream, I am reborn into those mountains with every step I chip-away from that earth.

Yes, my Ramallah dream is different than their U.S. dreams. My dream does not hold fantastical hopes for a money-filled future and multiple knocks of materialistic opportunities--it craves an opportunity to create priceless memories that may have otherwise described my past. My dream does not atrophy into reality--it rebuilds it.