A Dream Interrupted

It was a sunny day, but you wouldn't be able to tell from the shade created by the ever rising apartment blocks surrounding the street. I was walking swiftly back home back from an errand, passing by Ghada’s pharmacy at the top of our street, turning left towards our alley. I was carrying something in my hand, looking up towards our balcony. Home was merely a few steps away, and then just as I laid my eyes on our house door I was awakened by a text message. I was so close to reaching my destination. Annoyed by the text, I read it, purposely ignored it and went back to sleep. I thought to myself can’t I visit home even in my dreams?

Last time I was in Syria was during winter of 2009. I took the opportunity to go there for a whole month while I was between jobs. In fact one of the conditions of accepting my new position was being able to go home for an extended period of time. I had a routine whenever I went back. The first morning I would take a stroll in the neighbourhood, pass by my best friend’s house, buy some falafel and hummus for breakfast, and take in the sights and sounds that only an expatriate would miss. Sights like yellow cabs fighting their way through the traffic, sounds like the ones of the roaming fruit sellers, and smells, well, those of diesel fumes emanating from the infamous microbuses. On the next day I would visit Old Damascus, to go to the souqs and stop to smoke shisha and have tea at a café. Every day of the visit was planned without really being planned. I knew what I wanted to see and I just let my feet and heart lead me in whichever direction they pleased. Every corner I came across was a memory renewed, and with every forgotten sight seen again was a smile.

Every time I left Syria I know deep inside that next time I visit most things would have stayed put. Sure building got a little taller in our alley, the falafel shop owner expanded his restaurant, and a new pirated CD store opened up on the corner, but beneath all that everything stayed the same. You still have to fight your way to get onto a microbus, taxi drivers complained to you about the congestion, and the chaotic nature of government offices remained unchanged.  It was miraculous to see how a country could function given all the corruption.  Somehow though, the ever resilient Syrian meandered their way through the system and made things work. The country kept ticking, and I kept returning to a place that I’ll always call home, knowing that I’ll be able to visit that falafel shop, pass by my old school, and make a pit stop at the grocery store where I bought all my candy as a kid. Abed the grocer, still recognized me, and always asked me how things were in Canada.  

But for the first time in 40 years, things have changed, so dramatically so that I can’t fathom the feelings I will have upon returning home. I was due back on April 18, 2011, and just like before I had planned the trip between jobs. This time however the paper work didn't make it through the embassy, not because of the usual corruption but due to an event that many hadn't even imagined. Next week marks the last week at the job I started right before the revolution. This time however I’m sitting thousands of miles away behind a computer screen hearing news that breaks the heart, looking at pictures of rubble, the rubble of the falafel shop that I always counted on visiting on my first day back. 

A picture of a one of those familiar streets that lead to places dear to my heart.

Shuffle: All Songs

The emergence of the internet has definitely influenced the type and variety of music people listen to. The interaction of people on Twitter and Facebook, and the readily available music videos on YouTube, have all made the exposure and accessibility of music literally a click away. And now that we can carry over a few thousand songs in the palm of our hands, we have become walking music libraries. The beauty of this change in the way people listen and acquire music is that no one is ever complaining (except maybe for record labels).

Discovering a new album grants us hours of enjoyment in our cars, on Muskoka chairs, and even in depressing subway cars. We look forward to the chance of pressing play, and letting our thoughts and dreams dance with the tune of the song. The album eventually wears off its uniqueness and we go on to discover another one. If we ever choose to shuffle our music selection, we are bombarded with songs that define a specific time in our lives, songs that take us seamlessly through a past vacation, a season, or a celebration. A song simply becomes a label for a certain time in our lives.

So, following Isobel’s tag, I shuffled the songs on my iPhone and went through them one by one, until I got to 16. Below is the list:

1. A Message – Coldplay

2. The Rainbow – Charbel Rouhana/Hani Siblini

3. Rain Day – Jesse Cook

4. Ihtarif El Huzn Wal Intizar – Fairouz

5. Indama Ya’ti Al Masa’ – Abdel Wahab

6. Mata Ashofak – George Rassi

7. Nahawand – Haytham Safia

8. Taqasim Part 2 - Marcel Khalife

9. Beef and Brocoli –Immortal Technique

10. Anomaly (Calling Your Name) – Taylor

11. Ya Manta Wahishni – Fadel Shaker

12. Wherever I May Roam – Metallica

13. I Who Have Nothing – Ben E King

14. Sierra Maestra – Immortal Technique

15. Warako Al Assafar – Fairouz

16. Ya Roboo’ Biladi – Fairouz (I have a lot of Fairouz on my iPod)

I tag D.

It's not as easy as some make it look

I have been eager to get back into blogging again after the trip, but I just didn’t know where to start or what to say. Maybe because I don’t think my writing can do justice to some of the places I came across, and maybe it’s because writing about it makes me reminisce on a really good time, leading to nostalgia, and then reflectance, and then a whole bunch of day dreaming. I’m sure as winter hits and I begin to go into hibernation mode, I will look for warmth in the beautiful alleys of Porto, La Rambla in Barcelona, and in the morning walks along the Seine in Paris, and memories will materialize into words, just as they have for Granada.

It was really nice pushing the pause button on life, even for such a brief period. Maybe in the future I can change the tape, press play, and live life to a different tune.

Reminiscing Ramadan

So here I am jumping on the Ramadan post bandwagon, like any good blogger would do. In the few years I have been blogging I don’t think I ever posted something longer than a Happy Ramadan post. I think it’s because I’m never really that excited about the month, except for the odd Syrian drama that I look forward to.

My memories of Ramadan are from the time I lived back in Syria. Ramadan then came during the winter time, and this is the only way I can picture it. I remember going to school early in the morning with my friends, in the school yard we would all ask each other if we were fasting or not. The litmus test, if you will, to determine whether someone was lying is in the colour of their tongue. If it was white than you passed the test, otherwise you were taunted. Although there was always one annoying kid who related the white tongue to eating labneh (dried yogurt) in the morning.

At the time my grandparents lived one floor above us, and we would often join them along with my aunts and uncles to break the fast. We would have salads, soup, and all kind of delicacies just waiting to be devoured. The TV would be set to Syria Channel 1, and we would wait for the official call of prayer from the Omayad Mosque, and at that very moment you could hear the call of prayer from the myriad of mosques dotting Damascus. Usually my grandmother would be still busy in the kitchen even after the iftar, working on every last detail of the meal. On occasion, when I got back from school, I would be sent to the neighbourhood grocer, or produce shop to buy this or that. I would ride my bike, fully knowing that I’m going to have a few kilos hanging on each side of the handle bar. On the way I would see tens of other boys, and men running around from shop to another arranging those last minute details.

After Iftar the family would gather to watch a musalsal (Syrian drama), accompanied of course with a cup of hot tea, and any number of great deserts like knafeh, mshabbak, or bakalawa. The streets after Iftar are usually busy with people, some there simply to get out, others to shop for Eid. The atmosphere is more festive than I have ever experienced.

At night, about an hour before the break of dawn, I would get a call from my grandfather to go upstairs and join them for suhoor, the meal that’s supposed to give you that last push for the tough day ahead. On our street one man had stuck to old tradition and went through the alleys of the neighbourhood at night, repeating traditional phrases, while knocking on people’s doors, trying to wake them up for the all too important meal. Ramadan to me was the best time of the year, as I’m sure it is for most people in Syria.

Here in Canada the story is different as you can imagine. Celebrating Ramadan in Canada is like celebrating Christmas in Qatar. You might find people who follow traditions, people who are excited about the month, but the one thing you will never find is the atmosphere. I think this is why I love Christmas time so much. In a way it’s a replacement of the atmosphere I miss.

But I’m excited. Next year Ramadan will creep even closer into summer, and in a few years I will be able to experience the great atmosphere all over again during summer vacation. I will be experience Ramadan during the summer for the first time, and hopefully create great memories of a brand new Ramadan.

Summer finally started!

I woke up this morning to the sound of thunder in the sky. I am not the type who is scared by thunder, but today was a little different. I was certain the lightning bolts were arcing within a kilometre radius from my house. The sound was louder than I have ever heard. I got up, went through my morning routine and went back to video tape mother nature’s fine work. By then it had calmed down a bit, but as you can see it was still raining heavily.

Within an hour of what you saw above, the weather took a 180 degree turn as it often does. Summer has been greatly missed this year. The temperature barely made it above 25, and we were bombarded with rain weekly. As far as I‘m concerned today was the first day of summer, despite the little misbehaviour this morning. After it rained humidity soared to a 100%, the sun shined, and all the neighbours commenced working on their weekend projects. Having no weekend project to work on, the only logical alternative was a barbeque outside. Upon announcing the plan my mother worked quickly in preparing many delights including chicken breasts marinated with her secret marinate (let me know you if you’re interested), grilled vegetables dipped in an olive oil, balsamic vinegar, basil and garlic concoction, and Marina. Marina uses the same beef/onion/parsely/spices mixture used in Kebab but instead of cooking on a skewer it’s cooked inside a pita. And what better way to cool you down in this hot, humid weather than a cool Hoegaren.

While barbequing all of you guys really came to mind. How I wished we could all share the first day of summer together with good food, good drinks, and great weather. The best I could do is share a few visuals.

A better look at our attempt at making Marina

It was so humid the camera lense fogged up as soon as I stepped out

A healthy flame cooking the chicken

An Ingenious Idea

The scene: a busy classroom, students scattered everywhere, some busy putting the final touches on their projects, others nervously waiting their turn for testing. A carton of eggs is placed on the teacher’s desk, right next to a big plank of wood propped up from one side creating a slope. It’s noisy. There are some students checking out their peer’s work, others flirting with each other, and a teacher shouting instructions while holding a clipboard and standing authoritatively between the carton of eggs and the funny apparatus. In the middle of all the commotion a thump is heard intermittently.

It was testing day for our independent study unit for grade 12 physics. I had worked on my project for the past two days trying to come up with unique solution to the problem posed by the curriculum, as the teacher wasn’t creative enough to come up with her own idea. The problem was creating a device that would protect an egg from breaking, when dropped from 6 feet, on the ground and then on a slope. The marks were based on intactness of the egg, and weight of the device.

Most of the students used foam to cushion the fall, but I had something else up my sleeve. One night earlier I had sent my mom to the grocery store in search of a new type Ziploc bag, the type with a sliding zipper. I had intended on using two air filled bags to protect the egg, just like NASA does when they send missions to Mars. I tested my idea at home with great success. Next morning I went to the class with pride knowing that I had the lightest solution to the problem. Some students used straws, the prettiest girl in the class used...of all things...hand cream to slow down the egg. She commented after her successful trial “at least my egg smells the best!” Indeed it did, and I would have flirted with her some more, if my turn didn’t come up next. My first trial was successful, the air cushion took the impact without a problem. The second trial wasn’t as successful, as one of the zip lock bags lost lots air and the egg came smashing down. The teacher picked up the broken egg... “Eww!” she said, as she through my brainchild into the garbage with leaking egg stuck inside.

I was disappointed by I consoled myself by the fact that I had the lightest design. More trials go by and about half way into the class in walks Adam with a late slip. I had known Adam for a long time. He was in my grade 7 class, the first class I attended in Canada. We were good friends in grade 8, and continued to be friends into high school. Adam was very messy. He always had a zip-binder to contain his school notes, completely ignoring the fact that there were rings in binder to bind the papers together. He would often draw dragons, Metallica symbols, and the odd warrior in his notes during class. He usually came in to school with one blue pen, with a chewed top. It was probably a pen I had given him at one point when he forgot his at home. Adam didn’t only forget school supplies at home, he also forgot about test dates, and project deadlines... including the physics project I had just described.

Adam threw his bag in the floor, and began to curse about forgetting the important due date. There were only a few students left for the trial and Adams had to think of something fast. Eureka! Adam smirked, took his jacket off, grabbed an egg from the counter, and wrapped his jacket around it. He was so proud of himself, and I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off at his ingenious idea. His turn came up, and he went up to the front with a massive ball of down stuffed fabric, wrapped around a tiny egg. The teacher was obviously irritated at the lesson Adam was teaching us, especially when she knew the outcome of the test. The egg was intact after all the trials, and Adam couldn’t contain his giddiness. At the same time the teacher couldn’t contain he frustration and said angrily “Enough of that Adam...you have the heaviest apparatus anyway.” As you can imagine, Adam could care less.

Adam had spent a mere fraction of the effort all of us spent in the class, and scored a few point lower than the average. In his Adam’s mind he was the smartest guy in the class, and I couldn’t agree more.

In Memory of Frank McCourt

I came across his book while searching for a work on poverty for my grade 12 class. At the time I didn't know that I was to embark on reading a book that would have such an impact on me for years to come. Angela's Ashes is the autobiography of Frank McCourt, an Irish boy, born in America to a Protestant father and a Catholic mother. McCourt's book wasn't simply a description of his poor childhood, but rather a brilliant critique of culture and religion and the contradictions they bring about in society. His honesty brought him much criticism and made him an outcast in his own city. McCourt continued his great tale with 'Tis and finally by Teacher Man. I can't say much about his books because whatever I say I won't do them justice. I have re-read his books several times, and enjoyed reading them every single time. Maybe it's his sense of humour mixed in with the tragic moments of his life, or maybe it's his shear honesty. Whatever it was Frank McCourt will be remembered by many, and his story will live on, reminding us of how harsh poverty is and how good we have it.

Rest in peace Frank.

Queen of Andalusia - Part 2

Queen of Andalusia - Part 1

As we were talking to the cop, a shopkeeper came up to us and pointed up to the woman on the balcony. About a minute a later middle-aged, blond woman came down and started talking to us in Spanish. We showed her the address we were looking for, and as she led us to the location (which was about a 3 minute walk from her house) we realized that she was the owner of the hostel we were staying at. On the way to the hostel she pointed to a church, to her eyes, and then said Mirador. I thought it was the name of the church, and that she was hinting that all we had to do is locate the church to find the hostel. But I later found out that I was wrong.

We finally reached Plaza Bardalome, a very small, cobble stone paved plaza, surrounded by beautiful homes that you can only find in Granada. She opened the door of the hostel, a place which had served as a home for a Muslim, Jewish, and Christian family, representing the rich diversity of Granada and a symbolic reminder of the religious tolerance that Granada was known for. Our room was small and dark, but that didn’t matter to me, I just wanted a place to crash at night. I wasn’t planning to spend much time in the hostel anyway, that is until I saw the stunning terrace. The house had a massive terrace, reimincent of the “asateeh” commonly found in Syrian homes. The terrace overlooked Albayzín, and offered a fantastic view of Alhambra set against a backdrop of snow covered mountain tops. In the house garden was an acadenya (loquat) tree, a fruit that I hadn’t seen in over 12 years, sparrows were flying left and right, and the "Mirador" church tower was almost within reach, to put it simply the sight was out of a post card. We were hungry and I was anxious to see the city. We went down to the valley that seperates the hill on top of which Alhambra sits from Albayzín. We took our time on the way down, once reaching Grand Via, I stopped by a small shop to buy a map and then continued on to find the first shawarma restaurant I could find. After eating we made our way back to the hostel to be greeted by our third travel partner who traveled separately from us on the way to Granada. It turned out he also got lost on the way, and ended finding his way to the same plaza where we saw the cop. A Spanish man invited him for a beer when he saw him aimlessly wandering through the streets.

I won't go into all of the details of the next few days since there are many. For two nights of the three we spent in Granada we spent it with 3 girls we met at the hostel. They were teaching English in a small village at the southern tip of Spain and were visiting Granada for a weekend getaway. We found out that Mirador meant "look-out point" in Spanish, and we ended up spending a bit of time mesmerizing over the stunning scenery as far as they eye could see. We walked through rundown alleys with great graffiti decorating the walls, some graffiti bearing the fingerprints of Banksi, who was rumoured to have visited Granada recently.

The major highlight of my short visit were seeing Alhambra. It's hard to describe one's feeling when you step into Alhambra, for me I think it was a mix of awe and sadness. To get to Alhambra I had gotten up earlier than I was hoping for you. I tried to wake up my two friends but after a few unsuccessful attempts, I packed some water in my backpack, a croissant and left the hostel in a hurry trying to beat the terrifying line-ups. I didn't know the bus schedule from Albayzín, so I opted to run down the steep, narrow alleys, making decisions on which path to take on the fly, focusing that I was moving in a downhill direction. The streets were quite and empty, every now and then I would get a glimpse of Alhambra, which looked even more elegant at the break of dawn. It was an experience I will never forget. When I got to the bottom of the hill, I ran towards the main plaza where I saw Alhambra buses waiting a day before. Sure enough I found the tiny bus that escorted the tourists on their pilgrimage towards Alhambra through the picturesque neighbourhoods. The streets were filled with party animals having just finished a busy night of clubbing at the break of dawn. The bus filled up quickly, and the red walls of Alhambra began to creep up closer and closer. The line-up wasn't as long as I thought, and it gave me an opportunity to meet with a Japanese girl, and a British guy who turned out to be a great company as we toured Alhambra together.

To say that Alhambra is an art piece is an understatement. If I had ever pictured heaven, it would look very similar to Alhambra. Nestled in on a hill, surrounded by lush gardens, and with water features running through the whole palace, one can't help but be in awe. No shortcuts were taken in building Alhambra. The best of best is all the King settled for, and that's what he got. I pictured the King overlooking his "Ghornata" as it is called in Arabic, from everyone of the gorgeous nooks decrated with Islamic arches and surrounded by painstakingly carved walls. How lucky of a king he was, I thought. Then, as I went into the The “Abencerrajes” Hall and the feeling of envy changed to a feeling of sorrow. Sorrow for the King, who in this very hall, handed over the keys of Granada after admitting defeat. How hard it must have been not only leaving a kingdom, but a place like this, I thought. After visiting the gardens of Generalife and the towers that form the silouhette of Alhambra we opted for a taste of home at a Lebanese restaurant in Albayzín. Kafta, kibbih, and dips filled the table, and what better way to wash it down than with the local summer drink 'tinto de verano.'

In the time lefts in Granada we attended a Flamenco performance in a very intimate Flamenco bar in Albayzín. We strolled through the streets, hit the shisha bars, and soaked up Alhambra beer. We spent the last day sitting on the terrace, quite, sad, and reflecting on a place that had touched us in a way that we didn't expect. We packed our bags and headed towards the train station for our overnight trip to Barcelona. We boarded the train and took one last look towards Granada through the small window of the sleeper room. I retired in my bunk and waited for the train to start moving towards our next destination, officially bringing our visit to an end.

San Bardalome... finally!

The terrace

One of the streets I ran down on the way to catch the bus to Alhambra (in the background)

One of the many nooks where the King would have spent some time

The gardens of Generalife

A gorgeous Flamenco dancer.. Ole indeed!

Queen of Andalusia - Part 1

The story of Granada is a long one, one that will engraved in my memory forever.  Never had a city cast its spell on me as quickly as Granada did.  Out of all the stops on my Eurotrip last summer, Granada was the city I was looking forward to seeing the most.  The anticipation stemmed from a mix of its historical importance, and the special romance that I knew Granada would have... on to the story. 

After spending a few nights in Madrid, we used the ultra efficient metro system to get to the train station to catch our ride to Granada.  The train ride provided some of the best scenery I have ever come across.  The train made its way through mountains crowned with wind turbines and doted by numerous olive trees.  I looked at farm houses scattered here and there and wished that I the train would stop so I can take a closer look, and perhaps convince myself to give up all my plans and grow olives instead.   I kept looking ahead, hoping to catch an early glimpse of Granada before our arrival there.  Every time I saw a town from far away I would look carefully at the town’s features, trying to glimpse Alhambra, and every time I was disappointed. 

The train finally arrived, and to my disappointment none of the surroundings looked as I had imagined.  The train station seemed to be on the edge of the city, a city that looked very modern and lacking character.  Before finding our way to the hostel we first had to book our next train to Barcelona, which we managed to do using sign language and facial expressions.  After a brief encounter with the police (they stopped us to check our passports) we were on our way aimlessly trying to find the hostel.  All we were armed with is “Plaza San Bartalome” and bus route numbers.  We walked along what seemed to be one of the main streets in Granada trying to find a map of the city.  We managed to find a bus stop with a map, but to our disappointment the stop wasn’t part on the routes we were looking for.  Tired from carrying the heavy backpack and thirsty from the heat, we started to look for anything which might help us.  I noticed a shawarma restaurant, so I crossed my fingers that the owner spoke Arabic and went in.  I waited until he was finished serving a customer, found out he spoke Arabic, so I explained to him our situation. He offered to help us after short and pleasant conversation.  He couldn’t leave the restaurant so he went out and stopped a beautiful Spanish girl walking by, whom he seemed to know.  He told her to lead us to Albayzín, and we gladly followed. We communicated through smiles and the odd nod, until a few minutes later she stopped pointed to her left and said “Albayzín.”  We weren’t ecstatic about seeing a very steep hill ahead of us, but at least we were close… or so we thought. 

The steep slope ahead

Despite the hard walk uphill, my body was suddenly pumped full of energy with

 every step I took through the narrow alley. We came across an old bazaar which reminded me of Old Damascus, the people, the bustle, the merchandise, every last detail.  I was finally seeing the Granada that I had expected.   We kept making our way up the steep hill asking strangers about San Bartalome, most people didn’t know where it was, and the ones that did spoke to us in Spanish.  We started making left turns and right turns as we pleased, not knowing where we were headed.  Although I was vey tired, I couldn’t wait to get to the hostel, throw my bag down and roam the streets of old Granada.  

After about a half hour of walking we reached an open plaza bustling with people, all recognizing us as strangers to their little town.  We saw a police car and swiftly made our way there to ask him for directions, as we were asking him about San Bartalome, I noticed a Spanish lady standing on her balcony seemingly yelling out to her kid on the street.  The cop flipped through his little map book trying to locate San Bartalome.. it was about 45 minutes after we arrived at Albayzín and over an hour and a half after we got to Granada, and we still didn’t know where the hostel was.  To be continued...

The bustling plaza we came across right before seeing the police car

Living a Contradiction

Fairouz greets me every morning from my car speakers with her soft, familiar, and highly nostalgic voice. As I listen to her songs in the car I start reminiscing on the times we lived in Homs. I remember how my dad always had the radio turned up every morning to Fairouz, how I used to hear her voice on a cold winter day in Damascus before going to school, how happy it made me feel every time I got in a taxi in the morning with Fairouz playing on every radio station.

I can’t help but notice that as time passes I am becoming more nostalgic and attached to Syria. I was inclined to think, as I have witnessed in others, that as time passes one would begin to become more accustomed to being away. The feeling of belonging I thought would wane with time, but this hasn’t been the case. I prefer to hear news in Arabic, my iPod is filled with Middle Eastern music, and Nizar Qabbani’s words speak to me in a way that I can’t describe.

Sometimes I can’t help but confess that I live a contradiction. I like the culture, familiarity, and feel of Syria, and at the same time I enjoy the convenience, and the opportunities that are available here. As I drive through beautiful cities like Montreal and Toronto, I always find myself wondering why we can’t have a subway, why can’t we have decent roads, why are we not manufacturing?

I would love to apply my education to help Syria out, and I look forward to the day the economy opens up and foreign investments begin to pour in. Reading posts on FW: gives me hope, and something to daydream about, Breakfast At Mora’s pulled the thoughts out of my mind and showed me that I’m not alone. Perhaps the only way to cure the contradiction is by bringing the best of both worlds together, maybe it’s easier said than done, but one can at least dream.

The most basic of rights

He sat on the arm chair quietly, holding his cane in front of him with both hands. He had received a call from son in Dubai half an hour earlier. People around him were asking what kept him so quiet, so distressed all of the sudden. Was it the call? What was on the mind of the usually cheerful man?

On the way home in the taxi, he kept to himself, quiet. His daughters were wondering what was wrong, but the man preferred to keep it to himself. When the family made their way home the man reminisced on the evening he had just spent, indirectly opening up to the reason he was so quiet.

Going back an hour earlier, I was sitting with the elderly man on a balcony overlooking Damascus along with his brother in law, Ziad. During the conversation Ziad asked the man if had seen pictures of “di3itna” (our village), knowing that the mentioning of such pictures would rouse great eagerness in the man. The man got excited and inquired on how he could see the pictures. Ziad let us into the computer room and took us to a popular Palestinian website dedicated to the Nakba. The site had pictures of the ruins of a village, ruins that meant nothing to a passerby, but meant the world to the man looking at them. The simple digital pictures gave my grandfather the opportunity to see his home after a 60 year absence. Memories were awakened with every picture. He asked me to call my grandmother over to the computer to share with her the little treasure he had just found. Together they sat for about an hour looking at the few pictures available on the site. The pictures were all they had of their home, the pictures were their window to a land they often speak of, vividly recall memories from, and often dream of returning to. They worked off of each others’ memory, slowly putting the pieces together. They recognized to whom one of the houses belonged, and started recalling the trips they used to make to village spring as kids.

Al Shajara (the village) was ethnically cleansed on May 6^th 1948, by the Golani brigade. My grandfather was 17 at the time, and my grandmother a few years younger. Most of the villagers walked on foot to Lebanon, eventually settling in refugee camps in Syria. At the time of the expulsion my paternal grandmother was pregnant and had to walk on foot with 5 of her children by her side. She gave birth to my aunt along the way to Lebanon in a cave, symbolically naming her Raheel (Departure/Vamoose). My paternal grandfather was 40 at the time of the invasion. He was away from the village fighting with the Arab Liberation Army. At the time of expulsion my grandmother left on her own thinking that my grandfather had died in battle. About a year later my grandfather was able to retrace her steps and met her in Syria. Both paternal grandparents passed away without having the chance to even see pictures of their destroyed village.

The story of my grandparents is by no means unique. Hundreds of thousands of villagers were forced out of their homes in 1948, never to return. The ruins that remain from their villages stand as a stark reminder of the atrocities that took place.

Sadly the story is not over. Palestinians still live under occupation in the West Bank, with more and more of their land and houses getting confiscated. Meanwhile a growing diaspora population is watching the developments closely, hoping one day they can return to a land that exists in the memory of some, and the imagination of others.