A few weeks ago, a man in his sixties wearing a navy button-up shirt and black suit pants stopped my mother and me in downtown Ramallah to ask for some change. He was clean-shaven, with what remained of his white hair brushed to one side, and glassy grey-blue eyes. ‘Forgive me, I’m sorry. I don’t do this… but we don’t have electricity or gas at home. I’m sorry. Anything can help.’
A few metres further down the street, deeper into the city, a woman in her fifties sat crying on the sidewalk. A piece of cardboard lay beneath her as she held out her hands asking for coins. Perhaps where you live, this might not be an unusual sight. But here in Ramallah, it’s something new.
