1946 ”My father owned a lot of land where he grew wheat and tobacco. He sold the tobacco to a company in ‘Akka. We had sheep, goats, camels, and cows. My father bought donkeys from Cyprus; they were strong. I used to help with the milking. I would scoop the top layer of milk from the bucket with my hand and drink it. I ran around on our land. When I think about it now, it feels as if I was flying above ground covered with flowers. I was free. In winter we gathered firewood and loaded it onto camels. Deir al-Qasi lay high up on a mountain with a beautiful view and fresh air. People from ‘Akka and Haifa often came on weekend outings to our village. There were no Jews living in Deir al-Qasi. But Nahariya, which was nearby, was a Jewish village. We had good relations with them. They came to shop in our village, and we went to a doctor in theirs. Before the Nakba, I did not notice any tension between us and the Jews. However, there were strong tensions between the British and the Palestinian resistance fighters. We were constantly afraid of the British soldiers.” 1948 ”I had turned eight years old and noticed nothing about the war approaching. Suddenly people fled from al-Quds to our village. One day I was going to milk the goat. I was standing in the shade of a tree. Suddenly I heard a loud explosion. When I looked up, I saw three airplanes dropping bombs. I got scared and ran back to our house. I saw black smoke rising. By a well stood a man. His leg had been torn off. I felt pain and saw blood coming from my shoulder. My father, who was ill, was lying down resting. I tried to lift him up, but I did not have the strength. “The Zionists are coming!” my cousin shouted as he came running. My father slowly rose from the bed and we left the house. Outside, all the animals had been killed in the bombing. Even the dog was dead. The camels survived because they were with my grandfather. Everyone fled—men, women, children, and the elderly. We went to seek shelter in a nearby forest. My father leaned on my cousin for support. In the darkness I saw dead bodies on the ground. We continued walking toward the Lebanese border. We had no food and no water. At the border stood Israeli soldiers. They shot a young man before our eyes. “Dear ones, go to your leader, he will give you food,” one of the soldiers shouted to us. We crossed the border and arrived in the village of Ayta ash-Shab, where my father had a cousin. We were able to stay there. After a while, when things had calmed down, my mother and I returned to our farm. I brought some chickens with me from there. My mother also took some things from inside the house—I don’t know what. That was the only time we returned. Later, the house was demolished. We stayed with my father’s cousin for three days. So many refugees had gathered in Ayta ash-Shab that we decided to go north to a refugee camp in the city of Sur. There we hired a truck and everyone was driven eastward, toward the Syrian border, to the Baalbek refugee camp. Our family and five other families had to share one barrack. We remained there for twelve years, until the early 1960s.” Afterthought I make a distinction between Jews and Israelis. Jews and Arabs lived in peace in Palestine. But the Zionists who came from Europe destroyed my life. I hate Zionists, but not Jews. Every day I dream of returning to Deir al-Qasi, the most beautiful village in the world. But I have no passport."