
I stepped into Nejmeh Square as a daughter returned to trace the features of a face long hidden behind rusted locks, barbed wire, and decisions that weighed upon the hearts of the people. I visit it for the second time since it had been closed in my face — closed in our faces, for years, those of us who once believed that squares were created to belong to us, and that cities only lock themselves in old books when historians write of sieges and wars. For long years, Nejmeh Square remained a name we pronounced with caution, gesturing toward it the way one gestures toward a wound that has not healed. It was shut by those who believed they possessed its keys, and the keys of those within it; our steps were confiscated, and our reunion with its corners — which know the sound of our footsteps better than the "guards" ever could — was indefinitely postponed.








