I am one year
away from 30,
a physiotherapist
with good English skills.
But I lack the most basic life experience:
voting in an election.
Ink on my thumb,
a button that says,
in essence,
I have a voice!

I watch the messy,
chaotic,
nail-biting,
frustrating
process
that is the American election.
Even when Trump
thumbs his nose at democracy,
treating it like a joke,
I envy them.
After all the noise and fury
the people are winning.

I want to be able to choose,
to say this is who I do and don’t want
to lead the Palestinians.
I want to feel like I had a say,
at least once before my death.

Instead I write about things
I’ve never had,
and probably never will.
I watch them happen somewhere else,
while I remain
paralyzed by occupation,
consumed by internal divisions:  
so many to blame.