It is now 2 AM . After a few days of constant reading about all that happened in this area since the fall of the Ottomans (1924), I take a break. Looking out of my living room window, overlooking the Jerusalem Botanical garden, I feel the sweet Jerusalem breeze, mixed with the the hot smell of dark bitter coffee.
In my head I can still hear the roaring canons and smell the gunpowder of old wars, coming out of history books. I hear hateful speeches of fallen heroes, and sword brandishing by opposing factions.
Then comes a moment of silence. I look at the clouds, cascading over the the rooftops. I stretch my neck to feel the breeze a bit better. This is the only place in Israel where it can get a bit chilly in August. For a moment, I could hear the loving heartbeats of my city. For one moment, I could here my city weep. She weeps for her sons, calling her name, killing each other. She weeps for herself, for she never forgets.
Every morning, the city wakes up, puts on her makeup and smiles. I, for one moment, could hear my city weep. I wept with her.