1947 “Lubya was a large village. The land stretched all the way down toward Ṭabariyya. We were farmers and grew olives, figs, and grapes. Some of my brothers were able to study in Ṭabariyya. For us girls, it was not considered as important. From the time I was seven years old, I began to pray—sometimes at home, sometimes in the mosque. Our God never forgets. He records both good and bad deeds. The Jews and we were friends. They could come riding on horseback to have coffee with my father. There was no conflict. Then the others arrived. They showed up during the harvest, and we saw that they were different—they did not look like our Jewish neighbors. Why had they come here? Worry began to spread. Then the war came.” 1948 “The men tried to defend us with their rifles. But what can a rifle do against an airplane? They attacked us and shot 24 people. I saw it myself. I know their names: Muhammad, Zaid, and Ahmad were brothers. Ibrahim was from another family. Their relatives came and collected the bodies. They could not dig graves, so they laid the bodies side by side in a room and closed the door. We fled on foot. My sister-in-law was carrying her baby boy, Hussein, whom she was still breastfeeding. He died along the way. She dug a small hole in the ground with a branch. We helped one another so that he could be placed in the earth." Afterthought "My father and my brothers worked for others, either in agriculture or in construction. Most of the men in my family later died of heart attacks. Being expelled and forced to leave everything behind brings a deep sorrow that is heavy to carry. What were we supposed to do?”

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