snapshots

walking through narrow passageways of balata
the concrete walls of cramped buildings
press in from both sides
everything grey and hard
the light seeps in from above

flattened coke bottles
a lone shoe
shredded remains of plastic bags
blue, black, and tan
line the edges
and are strewn along the roadways

some may think these people don't care
though Jennifer notes that disenfranchisement
often looks a lot like laziness

children emerge from doorways
peer down alleyways
their dark round eyes gaze upward
steadily
glaring smiles and genuine curiosity
surround us

the chorus of now familiar phrases
punctuates the warm air
hello --
how are you?
what is your name?
in practiced and annunciated tones

soon we have a following

young boys press together in hopes
my friend Michael will snap a photo
they grin and giggle and begin posing
he stoops and focuses his lens

the boys huddle around him
lean in against his shoulder
eager to see their image
captured in time

we turn the corner
to a wider street
Mohammed cautions that we watch
our step
ripples of "dirty water"
stream past us
sewage, he tells us
though we already know

we are now outside the camp
newly constructed homes
built by refugees who have some money
border the edges of poverty
they chose to stay near the camp

a handful of women
bend in the nearby field
goats huddle on the rocky slope
munching the scraggly shoots
kites flutter in the high winds

in the distance someone points to
the other refugee camp
constructed by Israel
housing immigrants from Africa

we turn once again and shuffle
toward the top of the hill
Liz is absorbed by children
constantly engaging them with
high fives and handshakes
a boy takes her hand and walks
alongside us for a while

i can't get over the smell
choking me on this stretch of road
children play together in the street
with a tattered soccer ball
others kick around an old sprite bottle

martyr posters rather than flyers
announcing cultural events
decorate the sides of buildings
each gives the name of the person pictured
a message from the Koran
details of the death
perhaps images that coincide

a pair of eyes stare out at me
from the peeling paper
the boy can't be more than seven
or eight years old

walking through this place
i wonder what it would mean to live here
glimmers of hope in a hopeless scene
wondering what the future has to offer
these children
bright eyed
with toothy grins
who marvel at the foreigners
who have descended into their midst