Take me back to Gaza!
The author visits Jerusalem for the second time in her life and shares her feelings when she sets foot in the city.
I was 5 years old when my family went to Jerusalem to visit my grandfather in the hospital. I remember how impressed I was by the green grass, the wide open spaces, the elevator — which I thought could take us from one place to another — and the sesame cookies that Jerusalem is famous for.
Just like thousands of Gazans, my grandfather worked at a hotel in Jerusalem, and he was diagnosed with heart disease that claimed his life 23 years later.
I remember asking my grandfather about every single thing that was new to me, as a child who was growing up in a refugee camp in Gaza. “Why is this woman’s hair like this?” I asked. “She is Jewish,” my grandfather replied. “Why are there so many trees?” I asked. “This is the park of the hospital, where people visit patients,” he said.
While everyone was worried about my grandfather’s health, no one forgot about me. They answered my questions and then grabbed me by the hand. This is how residents of a refugee camp express their love, with compassion.
