These symbols of joy had become a source of fear, but also of resolve.
A single door separates the calm world of a café from the struggle for survival in tents outside.
Throughout 18 months of displacement, and miles of walking between cities and refugee camps, I wore the same painful shoes.
Nearly a month after our return, I still haven’t gone to see the ruins of our house in Al-Shuja’iyya. I cannot bear it.
One day we will again enjoy the olive harvest, not as displaced people but as farmers, as dreamers, and as children of this land.
My sister Islam, who shared my love of tape recording, was diligent, patient, and far brighter than me.
Like the people in the tents, like the fishermen readying their boats, I am tired of this situation. But none of us have the luxury of giving up.
I am not even allowed to go back to see what has become of my house and school.
Once again, we are back to asking ourselves all of the same questions: Should we stay or should we leave? Now or later?
There is no more strawberry crops, no more Strawberry City. Israel has completely destroyed them.
After the ceasefire, I returned to a city of ruins, but I found our old school building still standing!
Teaching English was more than just a career; it served as a stabilizing force in my otherwise hectic existence. That part of me is missing now.
