The New Yorker:

I no longer recognize many parts of my homeland. Only my memories of them remain.

By Mosab Abu Toha

On a summer evening many years ago, my father and I sat on the roof of our family home in Beit Lahia, in northern Gaza, and we talked about my grandfather Hasan. I never met Hasan. He died forty years ago, before my father was married, after a lengthy struggle with diabetes that required him to use a wheelchair. I craved stories about him from my father and his sisters. I wanted to know what Hasan used to drink, eat, watch, and wear. I felt like hearing my family’s memories opened up a room in my mind, where I could stand and paint my own portrait of Hasan.

“Did my grandfather ever travel abroad?” I asked.

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