Abigail Kafr Qasim Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Found this one gal—*mimes tippin’ hat*—all red lipstick, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Got any dough?” she says, smirkin’. I’m like—*mumbles, pats pockets*—“Only bread dough!” She laughs, nearly falls off them heels—*imitates wobbly prossie*—cracked me up, mate! Felt all happy, like when I nail a sourdough. But then—*frowns, kicks air*—some drunk git yells at her, “You’re filth!” Made me mad—*grrr, shakes fist*—who’s he to judge? Ain’t his coffee plantation burnin’ down, like in *White Material*. “Everything’s falling apart!” Isabelle’d say—prossie’s life too, innit?

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy Amir. He’s like, “Yo, you gotta come to the market on HaYarden Street. Crazy stuff goin’ down!” I’m like, “What now?” So, I hustle over. The market’s packed, as usual. Vendors shoutin’, people haggling. It’s a whole vibe.

60 years on, Palestinians recall Kafr Qasim massacre