I will never go to Palestine.
I will go back.
A father who was forced to flee at seven, with stories of blood stained hills.
A mother who gave birth in the diaspora, just as she was born in it.
Exiled since conception.
No, it’s not strange how I remember home.
Transferred memories planted into my soul, through my father love for gardening.
Through that map of Palestine every Palestinian home hangs on a wall.
Through the sound of newscasts in the background of my childhood.
In every minute I spent with my grandparents.
In the olive oil and olives my aunt sends from Jenin.
In the lines that make up Handala’s hair. In the words of Kanafani.
The poetry of Darwish, Marcel’s oud, and Fairouz’s voice.
I’ve known home.
A refugee’s refuge is the valley of memories guiding return.
To the home I’ve never been. To…
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