Za’Atar Rain

It all started with a pizza delivery. – A Pitta delivery, to be more exact. – Then there were the anonymous phone calls, – And then there was her. – Oh, there was also the border. – But I had to meet her. Now how do I get there? What if borders were just simple lines on a map? And that all we had to do in order to cross them was to walk past? This is a story of a journey. A long, impossible, unpassable journey. About tackling barriers, whether physical, metaphorical or mental. I’m Maya, and I was born in a place whose perception of borders is quite different, but I’m not here to talk about politics. I’m here to pose a simple question- why can’t two people from neighbouring countries meet?