Of his childhood, my grandfather Saeed remembered little more than the fear of the British boots pounding the soil of his village, Beersheba. He was only seven years old when he experienced the Nakba; Zionist militias forcibly expelled my grandfather. His mother carried him through rugged paths, fleeing the horrors of heavy artillery and weapons, believing their refuge in Gaza would last only a few days. These steps, however, were to mark the beginning of a refugee life that would stretch across decades. Once their sanctuary, Gaza would also become a place of their suffering.
In Gaza, my grandfather grew up on stories of another home. Images from an old time etched his memory. Imagining return one day, he wove tales of that place for his children. Dreams, he soon realized, were not enough. From a young age, he committed himself to his studies. He believed education to be his only guarantee for a dignified future despite the Occupation. He managed to complete high school, withstanding immense hardship and financial struggle... His determination took him to Egypt, where he pursued a degree in Arabic Literature. He worked in Libya and eventually settled in Saudi Arabia, a dedicated teacher who worked with passion and integrity.
“How hard it is to live without a homeland, a stranger to every place, alive yet not living,” Darwish once wrote. My grandfather longed for Gaza, the city that welcomed him as a young refugee, where he belonged as dearly as it belonged to him. He chose to return in 2002, hoping to spend the rest of his days peacefully among family, embracing the quiet life for which he often yearned.
The simple peace my grandfather longed for at the end of his journey was never to be. It was as though injustice had been his fate from childhood. In Gaza, he witnessed four wars in 2008, 2012, 2014, and 2021. His fifth in 2023, was unlike any other. Unparalleled in Palestinian history and perhaps, the modern world — a collective ethnic genocide.
In the nights of war, overdrawn by the sound of warplanes, my grandfather was the warm embrace amid such cruelty. He would gather and tell us stories of old Palestine, its blessings, and its landmarks that bore witness to its Canaanite and Arab heritage before the occupation stole and painted it in Hebrew hue. He described its streets before the Nakba, through the eyes of a child bidding them farewell. It is as though memory, after all these years, clung still to his deepest pain.
His features were strong and his eyes radiating with wisdom and resilience, my grandfather was more than a name on a list of victims. I have always known him as a symbol of strength, who stood tall against every challenge, no matter how great. I never thought war would rob him of his strength.
The relentless war struck his power and pride daily. His gaze grew faded, and his face, once full of life, grew pale and lined with wrinkles that told stories of sorrow. In a few months, he lost nearly half his weight, his body withering from hunger and lack of care, suffering in silence with nothing to ease his pain. No medicine was available for his aches, and no food was suitable for his aged body. It was as if the war conspired to push him slowly toward death.
His mental condition worsened with every explosion, amplifying his suffering. He suffered from thrombosis, then another, until he was confined to bed. My once-athletic, resilient grandfather, was reduced to a frail frame, bones barely covered by skin. The war had turned him from a strong man into a shadow of himself.
Day after day, I saw his face shift and wear down. I saw him last on Oct. 11, 2024, when our final embrace spoke of endings too profound for words. A silent tear slid down his weathered face, one that had borne witness to countless wars and immense sorrow. It was as though that tear was a final farewell, telling me that he was on the verge of leaving. I still remember that tear and wonder: how easier would his healing have been if there had been no war? How much better would our days have been if there was no Israeli Occupation?
My grandfather departed Gaza, leaving behind a legacy of memories and a wound that will never heal. He went to reunite with those who had preceded him, to a place purer and more spacious, fitting for the kindness of his soul, while we remain here, in this life, counting endless losses and mourning them in silence. They departed with their bodies, but their stories remain alive within us, passed down as truth and memory. In the end, we know they were not mere numbers or stories of the past. They are the soul of this land, victims of an unforgivable injustice.
