“Frankly, the people in Gaza could have been me. They look like me, talk like me, even speak the same language as me. They dress like me. Pray like me. Dance like me. Sing the same songs, and want the same things…I think that’s what hurts the most. The fact that the only difference between me and them is the sheer luck my grandfather had. I remember his story well, and how he left in desperation after being involved in clashes with Israeli settlers who were trying to take homes in his village…My grandfather ended up going to Kuwait, where he met my grandmother, whose family had been expelled from their village after the creation of Israel. He got married in hopes of bringing his wife back with him to his village that still existed, but was now under occupation…Yet, his hopes were crushed when he learned that Palestinians had no right of return. This meant that once they stepped foot out of Palestine they could never go back, even if his entire family was awaiting his return. It wouldn’t be until many years later when he’d finally set foot on the soil of his home…. It was always from then on merely a visit to Palestine, and never a permanent opportunity to live there.”