Monday, June 1


Dressed in black, but for soft crying, now and then, all is quiet in the women's mourning tent.
The imam' s voice can be heard from the men's tent, just a few meters away.
Dry figs and endless small cups of bitter coffee are handed out.
The mother clutches her dead son's picture to her chest.


1 comment:

Lirun said...

it is extremely sad - i have many friends who live in the thick of this neighbourhood and this is a little piece of their life as well..