Tel Aviv is a burning inferno in the sunset distance. You can see it from every hilltop in Ramallah, a giant eye glowing crimson and staring back from its usual safety-in-obscurity. It looks red because the sun is reflecting off the sea and illuminating the buildings on the shore. You spend so much time wrapped up in the Arabic around you that you forget Abadan is visible from here. Even from my garden if the weather is right you can see the whole entirety of the concentration from here. The ground is red and like clay and crumbles underfoot, smearing and infesting everything.
Mahmoud Darwish is buried next to a landfill facing Jerusalem but at least they won’t get this hilltop. Abu Amar’s tomb is the only clean and peaceful place in this whole pseudostate. Kh. mentions he won’t say the Fathiha here. “Not that I want him to go to hell,” he clarifies, “just that he wasn’t a good man.” He explains the deeper metaphorical ideas of jamra (جمرة). Driving through the refugee camp you will see stone monuments for fallen shaheeds who get no such burial as these men.