Ramallah, November 2014
Text
Hussam Taha
photography
Nadsat Orange
A body on a flight of stairs should have turned a few heads,
but nobody cared. One passing person after the other, the body remained
unnoticed, unimportant. It was quite the mystery, thought no one.
The body remained in its place, surrounded by walls that had
been aging for decades. Among the many, many things that these walls
encompassed were offices, doors that protected the secrets of their owners, and
most importantly, ceramic tiles that carried a history all the way from
Al-Khalil, and ignited jealousy in every other stone that witnessed their intoxicating
intrigue.
Any observer of these tiles finds himself lost in their
flowery patterns, and desperately searching for comfort. The flowers that the
eyes see soon exude a scent that the nose grows attached to, and soon after,
the ears pick up on the singing of the birds that find nourishment in the
nectar of these giving flowers. It is a mystery that encircles the mind and
indulges the senses, but in its own way provides the truth that nobody wants to
face.
How can a body matter when it grows older and decays, when
it does not keep a secret as well as a door, or when its beauty lasts a day
less the day it grows?
The body remained in its place for days, completely empty
and disposable. Until one day, its presence was finally captured by a man in
his late years who was instantly brought to tears. After all, he had never felt
emptiness quite this intense before seeing this body so plainly discarded in
the shadow of a humbly-majestic archway, while in the background stood a line
of ceramic tiles that burst with fulfillment.
Five minutes later, both the man and the body were gone,
while tears continued to fall down from thin air, caressing the surface of the
ceramic tiles each time. The flowers were never parched, the birds were never
hungry, and the ceramic tiles always intrigued.
