◉ 042 | Ceasefire Now

I finished a paid shoot.

From the backpack

I pulled out

my “fine-art” camera

and walked the back street

behind Sydney Road.

Roller doors.

Bins.

Cameras everywhere.

Then a roller door went up.

That sound usually means

questions.

I braced.

An older guy stepped out

under it.

Beard.

Hair escaping.

A beret with a red star.

He didn’t ask anything.

He pulled a pre-rolled ciggie

from his pocket.

Lit it.

Tobacco, I’d say.

He watched me

and already decided

it was fine.

“I am Mousa,”

he said.

He owns the sweets shop

out the front.

Knafeh, mostly.

We talked.

He grew up in Nablus.

Palestine.

He said the smell is still there.

Syrup.

Cheese.

Hot copper.

Streets.

I don’t often ask for portraits.

This time

I did.

He agreed

like it was nothing

to give a stranger

his face

in a service lane.

I asked about the war.

He didn’t rant.

Just shrugged.

“It’s been forever,”

he said.

Red.

White.

Mousa took another puff.

We talked sweets and streets.

Palestine.

Coburg.

Ceasefire, for a minute.

Here.

Now.