The following is a piece of flash fiction I wrote a few months ago.
I saw the most beautiful woman in the world in a newspaper with the headline Terrorist. I stared at her constantly for days. Leaning against an Israeli wall like an olive tree growing out of concrete, shinning black hair streaming beneath a black and red and white and green hijab, tears in her eyes like rain on a windowsill—such was her beauty. She taught me how to speak Arabic. She showed me that the words for poetry and hair are spelled with the exact same letters, that to see and to witness are the same action, and the only difference between teardrop and the verb to refute is a dot. But I don’t love her because her hair is poetry and her face a waving banner. I love her because just by looking she can bear witness to the madness of war. She can stand up against it just by crying.