Destruction in the area of the writer’s home. Photo: Ohood Nassar

March 30th — Palestinian Land Day — is never just a national holiday for me. It comes attached to a history.

As a child, I waited for the day to come so I could sit beside my grandfather, Zyada Nassar, listening as he dug through his memories and transported me with him to his original village of Barbara, from which he was displaced as a not-yet-10-year-old child.

Despite his young age at the time, he could recount every detail of the place as if he still lived there. He spoke of his family’s vast agricultural lands and of their small house nestled in the heart of those fields. He always said, “Our home was very small, but it was warm… a warmth beyond words.”

My grandfather was a farmer, and he took great pride in it. He was skilled at growing everything he planted. He told us about the orange, olive, lemon, and guava trees that filled their land with life and fragrance — how the earth gave generously. And with a bittersweet smile, he would often say, “The best tea I’ve ever tasted was on our land.”

His mother, my great-grandmother, would prepare tea over a wood fire, using leftover branches from the trees they would gather beneath. There, they would drink tea and eat simple, rich meals cooked over an open flame. Most of their day was spent on the land, working and living in its details, and when night fell, they returned to their small home — the one that embraced them all.

He described these moments as though he could still see them before his eyes. His voice carried a deep longing and a quiet sorrow that never faded.

Because that life did not last.

The great turning point for him came in 1948, when war broke out in Palestine. He told me everything happened suddenly, without warning. They never imagined the war would arrive but there it was. Suddenly, the roads filled with people fleeing neighboring villages — crying, screaming, carrying whatever they could.

My grandfather and his siblings asked what was happening. They were told that villages were being attacked, and that massacres could happen at any moment.

His family had no choice. His parents decided to leave immediately. They took only a few clothes, but before leaving, they watered the land well, as if bidding it temporary farewell, believing they would soon return. They locked the doors of their home, thinking they would come back the next day.

But that “next day” never came.

Their journey of displacement began, from one village to another, until they eventually settled in Gaza. They arrived with nothing. Everything they had remained in Barbara: their land, their home, their memories, their lives that weren’t allowed to continue.

They settled in the Al-Shati area west of Gaza and began a new life from nothing. Yet despite the passing years, my grandfather never stopped dreaming of return. He said often that he wished he’d never left — that he had stayed no matter what.

When he grew older and decided to marry, he chose to live in Beit Lahia, just to be closer to the village he could no longer reach. He carried an unshakable certainty within him: that return was possible and that land is never forgotten. He planted lemon and guava trees, tending to them with care. Though the guava trees didn’t bear much fruit, he would carefully keep what it gave to share with us. The guavas he provided always tasted far better than those we bought from the market. I could taste in them his time, his effort, and his love.

He always advised us: “Never leave your homes… no matter what happens.”

Then, when the war broke out in October 2023, we found ourselves facing a real test of my grandfather’s words. The war was harsh. The sounds of overhead attack planes never ceased, and bombardment surrounded us from every direction. Nearby homes were targeted, and fear was constant.

Still, we refused to leave.

We held onto our home just as my grandfather once held onto his. With every explosion, we remembered his words, feeling that leaving might mean losing it forever.

But after only three days, the house next to ours was warned that it would be targeted, and we had no choice. We were forced to flee. Our home became located in a “red zone” — no one was allowed to remain or return. In that moment, I felt some of what my grandfather must have felt decades ago. I wish now that we had never left, that we had stayed despite the danger.

Our home remained out of reach until early 2025, when a temporary ceasefire was announced and the army withdrew. We rushed back, our hearts filled with hope and fear. We found our home partially destroyed. We repaired the ground floor and returned to live in it. Even after the ceasefire was broken in March 2025, we refused to leave again. Danger surrounded us, but the thought of losing our home was far too painful.

Then, in mid-May 2025, the warning came again — sudden and final. Once more, we were forced to evacuate.

We left our home… and we took the key with us.

We still hold onto it, even though the house has been destroyed. We carry it as my grandfather once did — a symbol of a right that does not fade, and a dream that does not die.

My grandfather passed away in 2019, still holding the key to his home, believing he would one day return.

And today, I find myself living the same story.

But the difference is this: Land Day, which was once a day when I listened to my grandfather’s story, has now become the day I carry myself.

The dream is no longer only of returning to Barbara; it has become the dream of returning to the home in Gaza we were forced to abandon.

I live with my grandfather’s same hope.  I feel the same longing he once felt. One day, I’m certain that I will find happiness by simply being close to my childhood home’s ruins — the place that still holds my memories, my dreams, and my deepest wishes.