From a tent to another, I move.
and sometimes, snowing.
It doesn’t matter how cold it is,
because I am cold.
I have only one blanket,
when I sleep,
when I move from a tent to another,
and sometimes snow.
Wait! I am day-dreaming.
I don’t live in a tent anymore.
I live in a makeshift home.
I have more blankets.
I have more sweaters.
My life is better,
but I still feel cold.
I look out from the dusty window,
that looks like those in jails,
in my room I share with my brother.
It’s sunny outside!
but why am I cold?
I am still looking outside from the same window.
More makeshift houses appear,
“Our refugees’ rights?”
written in Arabic, I read on the walls around.
By then, I realized I am still called a refuge.
I saw people marching,
asking for human rights,
holding Palestinian flags,
and wearing the Kofeya.
I realized I am still a refuge.
I see people,
forced to leave their homeland,
where they live with no rights,
to have jobs,
to build houses.
I see kids,
looking at the protesters,
not knowing what they are looking at,
but I know they realize that,
they are still refugees,
in a neighbouring country,
oppressed and cold.
When streets in Palestinian refugees camps around Palestine are filled with loud voices in recent days, it's not celebration but protests, bearing the message "Enough, we want dignity".