Sayed Kashua

You are the other, always the other, even when you try to belong.

He was always careful to speak proper Hebrew, as if each word proved his worth.

In this city, every face is a mask and every word a performance.

To erase the past is to erase yourself, but sometimes you wish you could.

He wondered if love was simply the desire not to be alone.

You watch yourself as if from above, judging each move, each word.

A letter in her handwriting—proof that memory can haunt more than presence.

He envied those who could move through life without questioning every step.

You find yourself searching for traces of yourself in other people’s stories.

He had learned to smile at jokes he didn’t understand, to nod at words he didn’t agree with.

Sometimes, even your reflection seems foreign.

To forgive is to let go of the person you thought you were.