Like other worshippers,
Muslim, Christian, Jewish,
I pray to God.
I pray every morning,
every noon,
every evening.

I kneel on a rug woven in Jerusalem,
giving up my pride,
reaching deep inside to connect,
yearning for Him
to accept my prayers
in this world full of oppression,
arrogance
and injustice.

Gazing at the prayer rug
as I bow down,
my mind wanders to the Old City.
I imagine its every corner,
every alley,
as if they are in front of me.
I see worshipers praying
to the same God,
but with hearts both hard and soft.

I see the high walls
that divide our land,
our farms,
our people;
separating Jerusalem,
into two,
East and West.

I see checkpoints,
a multitude of them,
surrounded by armed soldiers,
and police dogs,
sniffing and searching the worshippers,
who come to Jerusalem just to pray.

I prostrate on seven bones of my body,
like Muslims all over the world.
This time I see a light,
a strong one.

My tears cease.
God has sent me a light of hope,
telling me the occupation will end,
peace and freedom are coming.