My great grandfather built this home. My grandfather inherited this home. My father inherited it in return after my grandfather’s death. And today, I inherited it. This home is dear to me. One hundred years ago, my great grandfather would rise with the sun and gather wood from the land he had bought. He would carry the load on his shoulders, sweat as the sun rises in the sky, and return to the land on which he built his home. For five weeks, my great grand-father, would chop, tie, fix, and build. And on the last day of his hard work, he brought my great grandmother to their new home. In this home, my grandfather fell asleep listening to his mother’s lullabies, walked and talked for the first time, and eventually grew old to have kids of his own. In this home, my father met my mother for the first time. It was love at first sight they told me. The wedding was held in the backyard they told me. So in fact, this home has been a witness to love, to joy, to laughter, to first steps, and new sounds. The walls of this home hugged my family when a loss would bring them to tears. This home has always been there. From generation to generation it has been passed on. And today, I inherited it. My father died today. But the walls wouldn’t hug my family nor will they witness the laughter that has been long gone. Why? A man had come, that’s why: a big man with big feet and big hands. He told my father to leave. He told him a friend of his had sold him our land. But how could that have happened? Where was the law? Where was justice? Where were right and wrong? This was our land! Our home! My great grandfather had bought this land and built our home, hundreds of years ago! His friend did not own this land in the first place to have the right to sell it. My father wouldn’t leave. This was our land. And so the big man called his friend. His friend came with friends of his own. Everyone stood outside our door: my family and the big man, his friend, and their many other friends. The big man and his friends drew out guns. They told us our land was now theirs and they would kill us for not accepting that fact and leaving their land. We stood our ground. No man would force us to let go of our rights. They grabbed us and tied us down. We were forced to kneel down and face the front; our backs were to them. They killed my mother first. Then they killed my sisters and brothers. I was left kneeling next to Father. I could hear them laughing and saying that our land was now theirs. There would be no one left to question that. I blinked and then saw my dad falling to the ground. He was still alive, barely. He smelled the ground under him and smiled. Then, he was gone. I didn’t understand why he smelled it or why he smiled. I wasn’t given more time to ponder on my father’s reaction. I felt the bullet hit my skull and I fell. I fell and the only thought left in my head was that I had died for my land. I had stood up for my right and given up my life for refusing to surrender. And suddenly, the dirt, the trees, the leaves, the grass, the tiny worm moving beneath my home, and the birds and other animals that were now silent became so very precious. The house next to the bodies of me and my family with everything in it had become so dear. The land beneath my head had become priceless. Lives had stood up for this land, for this home, for this right. I smelled the land that was now surrounding me. I inhaled the sweat of my great grandfather, the tears and laughter of my grandparents, the steps of my father, the songs recited at my parents’ wedding, the earth that had engulfed my childhood. Then, I smiled and closed my eyes, knowing that I had not let go of this treasure for nothing; knowing that I had given up the most precious thing I owned, my soul, for this land and home. We might have lost this fight, but there were millions of other families to come. Millions that would also fight for this land and home. For Palestine.
