Weak autumnal sunshine filters in through a gap in the curtains, casting a hazy glow on to the face of Ahmed who is sitting in front of a mirror, meticulously applying fuscia pink lipstick to his cracked lips. A child screams disconsolately several floors below. The relentless barrage of traffic seeps through the open window. But Ahmed hears none of this. All he can hear is the comforting whit of the vinyl from the corner of the room and the gentle crooning of Frank Sinatra ‘……..flyin’ too high with some gal in the sky is my idea of nothin’ to do, but I get a kick out of you……’ Ahmed hums tunelessly along, studying himself solemnly in the mirror. He has missed a spot. Picking up the silver encased lipstick holder, he runs his finger reflexively over the engraved letters: ‘Mina’. He squints and draws his breath in as he fills in the corner of his lower lip. Satisfied, he sits back and stares at his transformed reflection. Dark eyes. Unbrushed tousled black hair. A faint scar which is all but invisible to everyone except himself runs around the rim of his left nostril. And fuscia pick lipstick. Mina’s lipstick. If he stares at his lips for long enough he can almost conjure her up. The arch of her eyebrows. The darkness of her long lashes. The walnut colour of her skin. The gracefulness of her neck. The golden drops that always hung delicately from her earlobes. But if he tries to put the features together the clarity blurs. Ahmed clenches his fists in frustration. He looks away, glancing at the goldfish swimming round its bowl in the mirrors reflection. In the corner of his vision, hidden away at the back of the room behind the bed is a Palestinian flag. His thoughts are dragged away from Mina to everything that the flag symbolises, or should symbolise. A homeland. Pride. The struggle. Claiming what rightfully belongs to you.

“Don’t go son. Stay for us. For Palestine.”

Ahmed closes his eyes and is transported to Old Jaffa, that beautiful walled city on the coast. The city which was once in a country called Palestine. Can a country really cease to exist? Ahmed sees himself as an eight year old child, running barefoot through the market with a bag of freshly baked bread slung over his shoulder. His twin is running several steps behind, calling out to him to slow down. He laughs, dodging the spice vendors and trays of sweetmeats piled mountain-high. Opening his eyes, he feels delirious trying to connect these two such alien worlds. How did this happen? How can it be that he is suddenly so far from everyone and everything he knows and feels comfortable with? But the truth is, it’s not sudden. It’s been three years. Three long years of moving from one shabby bedsit to another. Of scouring charity shops for warm clothes to get him through the freezing winter nights. Of forcing himself to stop listening to the music he knows will only bring back painful memories of his home. He’d never even listened to Frank Sinatra, but it was the first record he’s picked up in the shop. Now he listens to nothing else.

He closes his eyes once again. They are walking along the seafront towards Tel Aviv. It is one if those beautiful spring days when the waves of the sea flirt with every onlooker, luring them into its tantalising coolness. Wispy white clouds streak the sky and men wheel along barrows of watermelons which people flag down to buy from. A day on which they can almost pretend that people live in peace here. The further out of Old Jaffa they walk, the change is unmistakable. Tel Aviv is whiter, more edgy and course, the faces change too. This is the seventy year old city built out of the ashes of a Jewish dream. The heart of the new Israel.

They reach Dizengoff Street. Ahmed has to sort out some paperwork so he arranges to meet Mina in half an hour. He leaves her sitting on a bench on the seafront outside a café. She flashes him a smile. That is the last time he ever sees her alive.

As Ahmed opens his eyes, trying desperately to pull himself out of his reverie back to the present, the first thing he sees is the Palestinian flag, pathetically crumpled. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror, he is jolted back into reality. He looks like a monster with all that hideous lipstick smeared on his mouth. An overwhelming surge of anger builds up from the pit of his stomach, escaping in a strangled scream. He smashes his fist into the mirror and it shatters, sending broken images of fuscia pink lips flying. She is lying face down in the rubble. Ambulance sirens mingling with wailing. Police. A severed limb here. A bloodied corpse there. The call of ‘suicide bomb’ echoing around the smoking ruins of the burnt out café. Ahmed is screaming as he turns her over, praying that it won’t be her. It can’t be her. Suicide bombers aren’t meant to kill their own kind. Another man is wildly flailing his arms around as he tries to pull a buried child out from under the rubble and as he does so a piece of flying glass hits Ahmed under his nostril and he can taste blood in his mouth. At this same moment, he knows it’s Mina. His beloved twin.

“Don’t go son, don’t leave us. It’ll be like losing two children. You must stay. You must stay for us and for Mina’s sake. You must stay for Palestine. Please don’t go son.”

He gets to his feet and with a roar throws the mirror behind him.

Silence.

The goldfish pathetically flaps its gills as it lies dieing amongst pieces of its broken bowl on the floor. And as Ahmed’s body is racked with sobs, Frank Sinatra continues to sing of love and of longing.