Our Palestine

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When I think of Palestine, I think of strength, resilience, pride, family, and love.

When I think of Palestine, I think of delicious olive oil, freshly baked Kaak, the smell of the old city, and my grandmother’s cooking.

When I think of Palestine, I think of my mother, the strongest, most resilient, and loving person I  know.

When I think of Palestine, I think of the home I never got to call home. 

My grandfather was born in Al Lidd, Palestine, in 1935. Al Lidd, now known as Lod in Tel Aviv,  was my grandfather’s home for the first 13 years of his life. In 1948, during the year of the Nakba,  Israel occupied Al Lidd. My grandfather, who was only 13 years old at the time, was forcibly displaced from his home with his family. They fled to East Jerusalem, which was under Jordanian mandate. As the eldest sibling in his family, my grandfather dropped out of school to work and study in Iraq so that he could support them. My grandmother was born in Safad, Palestine, in 1946.  Two years later, she and her family were forced out of their home and fled the war to a refugee camp in Syria. To this day, my grandmother’s family is refused the right to return to their home. 

When my grandfather married my grandmother, she separated from her family and moved to  Jerusalem to be with him. As a child entering the first of his teenage years, my grandfather lost his home and quickly learned that he wouldn’t get to live the typical life of a teenager. He had become the man of his house. As a baby learning to take her first steps, my grandmother lost her home and quickly learned that her childhood would be spent in a refugee camp. 

In 1967, Israel occupied Jerusalem, and my mother was born into the occupation. Her childhood memories are filled with moments of fear and uncertainty. As a Palestinian living under Israeli occupation, she and her family were constantly being stopped, searched, and interrogated. Her curiosity about the rest of the world was taken away from her as the books she brought back from her travels were confiscated. She distinctly remembers waking up in the middle of the night and running up to the roof to make sure that Israeli soldiers didn’t surround their home. Her fear and anxiety would wake her up in the middle of the night to ensure that her family was safe.

Despite living under frustration and oppression, my mother never stopped dreaming about a life with freedom. At 20 years old, she was the only woman in her family to move out of  East Jerusalem. She went on to earn her master’s degree in London. She fulfilled her curiosity about the rest of the world by living in several different countries, such as Germany, Hong Kong,  Switzerland, and the United Arab Emirates. She obtained a United States green card and eventually US  citizenship a few years ago. Despite having left her occupied home willingly and obtaining US citizenship, my mother is still having to deal with rejection at the border. Today, after 20 years of having lived in  Jerusalem, she is still stopped and interrogated every time she goes back home to visit her family. 

I was born in 1998 to a Palestinian mother and a Lebanese father. I visited my family in Jerusalem every year until 2016, the year my grandparents passed away. It’s been almost a decade since I’ve been back, and while I can think of beautiful memories of Palestine and the time spent with my family, the ones that I remember most clearly are the ones that incited fear in me. I wish I could tell you how clearly I remember the smell of the old souk and the delicious food at The American  Colony. I wish I could tell you how clearly I remember picking fruits and olives from my grandparents’ garden with my cousins. I wish I could tell you how clearly I remember my mother and grandmother sneaking out to smoke a cigarette on the balcony. I wish I could tell you how clearly I remember sitting at the dining table impatiently waiting to eat my grandmother’s Malfouf.  I wish I could tell you how clearly I remember the Mussakhan my aunt prepared so that it’s the first thing I ate after a long day of travel.

The truth is, what I remember the most is the way my mother prepared me for all the questions I would be asked at the border when entering Jerusalem.  “What is the purpose of your visit? Who are you visiting? Where are you staying? Who’s your uncle? Who’s your aunt? Which places do you intend to visit? Your mother is Muslim. Why is your father Christian? Your father is Lebanese. Do you go to Lebanon? Why do you go to Lebanon?” My most recent memory, and the last time I visited Palestine, is the time when my grandmother passed away. It was my first time crossing the border alone, as my mother was already in  Jerusalem. I was only 17 years old when I was taken into an interrogation room by Israeli soldiers.  They confiscated my phone and interrogated me for almost an hour. And while I was trained to answer their questions, they began asking me ones my mother had never prepared me for. I  remember the fear of responding with the wrong answer. I remember the fear of being detained and taken away from my mother. I remember the feeling of inferiority. I remember feeling seen as a  threat to my own country. 

Three generations, two Nakbas, three times the anger. 

And after all this time and despite our unfortunate experiences, when I think of Palestine, I think of honor. 

When I think of Palestine, I think of my own fading memories. 

When I think of Palestine, I think of my own resilience. 

And with every ounce of my being, I will do whatever I can to return to the home I can finally call home. 

Loulya Boukhaled