The house where I was born and raised was a slice of heaven, nestled in front of a vibrant garden. It was a simple house in al-Zaytoun, a Gaza City neighborhood, yet it had the power to soothe your heart and lift any burden from your soul.
Each morning felt magical, frequently filled with crisp, refreshing air carrying the delicate fragrance of orange and rose blossoms from the garden. Dewdrops clung to the leaves like scattered diamonds, capturing the first light of day and shimmering with a quiet elegance that heightened the beauty around me.
Both my grandfather and grandmother were refugees, forced to leave in 1948 their beloved land in Beit Daras under the looming threat of the massacre after a Zionist paramilitary organization attacked their village. ….more
