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I had wished to be able to review the book impartially, to review it as others would read it, but I couldn't. Written by a poet, translated by an artist, was it any wonder that I wished I could quote the whole book were it in my own hands?

'Displacement is like death'

A more painful story I haven't read, one that resounded strongly within and made me shed scorching hot bitter tears for what I had lost through no fault of mine. A sharp sense of acute hurt, betrayal by forefathers who walked away from Ramallah and other cities blessing us with the name 'displaced ones', betrayal at the countries that tried to save us and yet were defeated in humility.

'..tells me that Ramallah is no longer mine and I will not return to it. The city has fallen.'

It was no longer him leaving Palestine; it was me, me that had crossed the bridge to Amman, me that was locked out, me that was sweltering in Cairo's stifling heat, me that was waiting at Jordan’s check point, staring at the dried river. I felt transported through time as though this was my own shore of memories I was walking upon, my own pages of emotions I'm flicking through. The writer’s narration has you transfixed, there with him, and the journey back to your current place and seat is long and wearisome.

'The stranger is told by kind people: "You are in your second home here and among your kin." He is despised for being a stranger, or sympathized with for being a stranger. The second is harder to bear than the first.'

I've always been fond of the English verb 'to yearn'. I felt no other language could sum up my emotions so beautifully in one word, I have a yearning to learn French, I had a yearning to walk barefoot upon the shores of Jaffa. Reading this book has made my word pale beyond comparison. If before I yearned to visit Palestine, now I'm left with a yearn-shaped hole needing to be filled with Palestine.

'I do not say thank you little bridge. Should I be ashamed in front of you? Or should you be ashamed in front of me?'

'Being forbidden to return killed him'

'For the Palestinian, olive oil is the gift of the traveller, the comfort of the bride, the reward of autumn, the boast of the storeroom, the wealth of the family across centuries'

'The Occupation has created generations of us that have to adore an unknown beloved; distant, difficult, surrounded by guards, by walls, by nuclear missiles, by sheer terror'

'All those who have been destined to exile share the same features. For an exile, the habitual place and status of a person is lost'

'We cannot grumble about it as people grumble about their tiresome capitals. Perhaps the worst thing about occupied cities is that their children cannot make fun of them'

Who would dare to affectionately complain about Palestine? Londoners can generally agree to complain about three things, the weather, the public transport and the government's taxes. When busses go on strike we are all united in ranting against TFL, people that have never spoken two words together will suddenly be united in their morning grumpiness, facebook status' are updated from around the country through phones all sharing one common theme. Palestinians have been deprived from that. Reproach is only for the beloved we say in arabic, Palestine our beloved we cannot reproach or complain because we're too busy struggling to keep it between our hands.

This boy...who has seen nothing of Palestine throughout his twenty years, burns to see it like a refugee grown old in a distant camp

'Some Palestinians wronged Lebanon. The children of the camps pay the price for this everyday. If only all who had wronged Palestine would pay the price too.'

The unjustice of it all came crashing down upon me while reading this book. My french and russian Jewish friends may wax lyrical about the beauty of 'Israel' while I, supposedly a Palestine, have never set sight on it. Arabic countries like Lebanon and Jordan are preserving our 'Right of Return' by making sure our stay is only temporary. Children born and brought up in Lebanon, marrying in Lebanon, bringing children into Lebanon, they are stamped as 'temporary'. We are still living in this state of temporariness, waiting.

'"Should we leave it to the settlers? Everyone should come back from abroad who can"'

'The fish
Even in the fisherman's net
Still carries
The smell of the sea'

Reading this book has only confirmed my memories of Palestine. Do not ask me where they came from, but they are there. I remember Palestine, it's ingrained in every cell in my body that breathes, every atom that makes me. For Palestine is no longer merely a land. It lives and breathes in us, she is us and we are her.

The pillow is the register of our lives. The first draft of our story that, each night, we write without ink and tell without a sound'

The journey that I started with Mourid started and ended on my pillow. It was a witness to the laughs I laughed, to the grins I made. It held my tears and wiped them away promising me a return. It shared my angst and frustration, my love and joy. Do not bother telling me that I'm not a Palestinian as my memory and existance denies otherwise. Do not bother telling me that Palestine will come back to me, for Palestine was never lost to us and never will be. I only hope that we will soon be reunited.

For those of you that have managed to reach the end, I only say, 'a must read'.