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April 26, 1948, was the last day I spent at our home in Jerusalem. My father had finally made the decision to send us to Lebanon to visit family and stay for a while until the situation calmed down.1
Transportation was not easy to secure then due to a shortage of petrol, so my brother Khaldoun left the house early in search of a car that would take us to Amman. Meanwhile the rest of us - my father, mother, sisters and I - waited for him with our luggage.
"The car is at the gate," my brother announced on returning. "Did you make sure the driver has enough gas?" my father asked. "Yes," Khaldoun replied. "And did you tell him I would be coming back to Jerusalem with him after we reach Amman?" "Yes, I did."
That was it. We left, just like that. Many neighbors had gone before us, wondering why we were staying in Jerusalem when we had family and a home in Lebanon. I remember one neighbor, Sitt Zakiyyah, shedding bitter tears as she lamented to my mother, "I'll be all alone, Umm Khaldoun, I'll be the only one left," while my mother tried to reassure her that we would be back in just a few weeks.
I confess to having felt happy that day. I could hardly believe that my dream of seeing the green mountains of Lebanon was going to come true. I belonged to the youngest generation in the family who, because of World War II and its aftermath, had not yet visited their country of origin.
It did not surprise me that the streets were nearly empty of cars and people. What worried me was that as we were passing the Mamilla cemetery I noticed my mother and father exchanging sorrowful looks, and saw tears pouring from my mother's eyes. Why was she crying? I knew that my dear sister Maha's grave was there. How hurt I would feel when they refused to allow me go with them to visit her grave, saying they would take me there when I was older. I badly wanted to visit the grave, if only once.
I loved Maha without knowing her. She was older than me, and God had...