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chin in her hand and looks me in the eye. ‘I say this to you because you are the daughter of my daughter. Feel as you wish; that is your right. But you will soon find that even hatred will not give you comfort. It will only make
you
miserable.
    â€˜It is a funny world, ya Hayaat. Oh, I know I am as old as a mountain, but I have learned some strange things along the way.’ She pauses and then excitedly rummages through her box. ‘Here, look!’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜The deeds to my land,’ she whispers, as though letting me in on a special secret.
    She scrunches up her wrinkled nose and her face suddenly erupts into anger. ‘My home was occupied! Stolen! So many times, ya Hayaat, did I wonder, after we fled, what happened to our belongings. Were our furniture and our clothes and my pots and pans being used? Or had it all been thrown out? I could never decide which was worse.
    â€˜We lost our friends and family. There was no time for goodbye. We fled, thinking we would return days or weeks later. I remember the nights in the camp when we would all gather to listen to the radio, to the messages from people in other camps. Ooh! Our ears would perk up like rabbits’, waiting for a message from somebody we knew.
    â€˜We only ever heard a message from one person we knew: your grandfather’s cousin. Your Khalto Ibtisam was a baby then. She had terrible wind but I was busy feeding Shams. Shams was sickly since the day she was born and always wanted to be on my breast. So your grandfather sat with me in our tent as I instructed him to put warm olive oil in Ibtisam’s bellybutton.’
    â€˜
What?
’
    â€˜It is soothing.’ Ignoring my dropped jaw, she continues: ‘As he slowly poured drops of the oil over Ibtisam’s belly we heard the radio presenter say: “Abo Nasser Mahmoud Abdel-Razak says that he is safe with his family in Shatila camp in northern Lebanon.” Your grandfather was so shocked he forgot what he was doing and nearly poured the entire jar over Ibtisam!’ Her heavy shoulders vibrate as she chuckles quietly. ‘Then he started to sob. I tell you, Hayaat, men have never, and will never, know how to do two things at once. I was crying too, but I still managed to breastfeed Shams. But your grandfather could not handle sobbing for Abo Nasser
and
attending to a wailing Ibtisam, who, by the way, was now as greasy as a marinated chicken. So he slipped Ibtisam into my arms and I tried to soothe her, feed Shams and cry for Abo Nasser all at the same time.’
    â€˜When did you see your home again, Sitti?’
    â€˜After the Six-Day War. Sometime in 1967 we returned. What was once my village was now classified as
West
Jerusalem. Many of the homes were occupied by Jewish families. Some parts had changed, so much so that they were unrecognisable to us. Your grandfather and I, along with Hany, Ibtisam, God protect—’
    â€˜Yes, yes!’ I interrupt impatiently. ‘God rest their souls and open the heavens to them and everyone they have ever encountered in their lives. So, about your return? What happened?’
    â€˜I am old and forget where I put my slippers and when your mother’s birthday is, but know this, ya Hayaat: that day is burned into my memory. I can remember every detail.
    â€˜Saleem didn’t come with us, for he was working in Kuwait then, so Hany and Ibtisam, who were now grown up, did. Hany was working for an Israeli family near Netanya so he spoke Hebrew and could translate. Your mother was seven and Sharif was nine but they were very naughty and so I left them in the care of a friend. We walked through the village and I
heard
the silence of my people, Hayaat. They were like ghosts, hovering around us. As we walked the wide village streets and narrow alleys that had not been destroyed, I felt like an orphan who, after many years, is reunited with her parents.
    â€˜We walked past the site of the