Little Palestine in Munich!

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Whoever thinks that Berlin is the historical capital of Germany may have some right politically.

But Munich, the capital of the province of Bavaria, is actually the hidden capital of Germany.

Munich does not occupy you with the noise of Frankfurt, nor with the vastness of Tokyo, London and New York, but it easily draws you to the Bertrold Brecht Institute, and Wagner’s music forces you to contemplate the mosaics of its churches and listen to Sunday mass.

In Munich, there is a lot of depth that we do not realize about Germany, about its ambiguity, the secrets of its history, and how this nation turned into an overlapping and parallel group of nations around it.

Munich does not keep you at its shell or surface, but rather takes you to the heart of its core if you love to read the origin and essence of nations, and not just buildings and luxury cars.

What saddened me the most in Munich was that it saturates me with Germany but I do not convince, I wander by hours, but by days and nights but I do not feel the need to return to my hotel.

Without pretense, or exaggeration, I knew this city well, for reasons that had nothing to do with Germany, but had to do with who we, the Arabs, were.

On Freedom Street in the heart of Munich was a restaurant run by an old Palestinian immigrant intellectual, but which was in fact owned by his wife, a wealthy German with great sympathy for the Palestinians.

Her restaurant was like a museum that presents you with Palestinian food a message from Palestine, a recommendation to the world, an appeal to the future, a dialogue with the human conscience, a book that resembles an atlas of the ancient cities of Palestine, a map of Jerusalem, Palestine olives, thyme, its taste, its smell, and the Palestinian shawl that you take with you. A gift when you leave.

In this restaurant I went to Palestine, which I have never been to, and from there I went to Germany .. Germany, which I have never known more countries than, including my country .. Yemen!

In Munich the Bavarians remind you of your national dignity, your folk costume, your private life, the features of your grandfathers and the faces of your grandmothers, they make you know your unknowing self, they bring back to you your first memory, your identity that must have been, and your meaning which should have no meaning.



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