Just as my grandfather was forced off his land in 1948, we were forced from ours in 2025. We live with the hope of returning to our home, as he hoped to return to his.
The Israeli army enforcing the so-called “yellow” line, and the Palestinian militias positioned in our neighborhood, prevent us from returning home.
Behind every completed task is a story of a struggle, persistence, and pain.
A single door separates the calm world of a café from the struggle for survival in tents outside.
We were sitting at the harbor / talking about university buses / about crowding / about nothing important.
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.
Once again, we are back to asking ourselves all of the same questions: Should we stay or should we leave? Now or later?
In Gaza after the October 10 ceasefire, the suffering has not ended; it only changed shape.
In 1948, my grandfather fled with only a bag of clothes. Last year he fled again—paralyzed, in a wheelchair, and carried aloft by his family.
I used to love cold, wet weather. Now it destroys everything I love and brings only distress.
