"I tried to put the displacement between parenthesis, to put a last period in a long sentence of the sadness of history, personal and public history. But I see nothing except commas. I want to sew the times together. I want to attache one moment to another, to attach childhood to age, to attach the present to the absent and all the presents to all absences, attach exiles to the homeland and to attach what I have imagined to what I see now."
Upon finally returning to Ramallah, Barghouti is greeted by unfamiliar territory. So much has changed that he is forced to reconcile his previous image with this present reality. In writing this book he has attempted to explain the disparity of memory which has traced such a mournful history through his recollection, alway seeking reunion with his home.
"Someone should write about the role of the older brother in the Palestinian family. From his adolescence he is afflicted with the role of brother and father and mother and head of family and dispenser of advice. He is the child who has always to prefer others to himself. The child who gives and does not acquire. The child who keeps watch over a flock of both older and younger and so excels at noticing things."
Growing up, Barghouti worshipped his older brother. As an adult, however, his adolescent affection has matured into devout respect for his brother who assumed this traditional role of leadership which Barghouti himself understood but never suffered.
"For the Palestinian, olive oil is the gift of the traveler, the comfort of the bride, the reward of autumn, the boast of the storeroom, the wealth of the family across centuries."
Barghouti takes great pains to revive his culture in his travels abroad. Being far from home, his native rituals are always close upon his mind. Barghouti imparts his wisdom of Palestinian culture in nuance gifts he's laid out for readers who may not be familiar with Palestine.
"Throughout the years of the Intifada, when women saw a young man captured by Israeli soldiers, they would attack the soldiers, all of them crying and screaming: 'My son, my son -- leave my son alone.' On this occasion the soldier, dragging the young man away, shouts: 'Go, you liar. How many mothers for one boy! A hundred mothers for one boy. Get away from here, go!' She screams at him: 'Yes! We're like that. A boy here has a hundred mothers, not like your kids, every boy has a hundred fathers!'"
Barghouti remembers the danger the Israeli army posed even when he was a young boy. The threat served to catalyze the congealment of the community. Everyone looked after one another in the hopes that any would survive and return to their families. These women in the street are mothers, so they too have a right to plead for this son's safe return.
