A mere two months ago, we had the rare privilege of visiting our family in the Gaza Strip, a place I've always romanticized despite the more than 16-year-long blockade, preceded by 55 years of Israeli military occupation. Even though we were displaced to Gaza as refugees from Ashkelon, it still represents home to me. As a Palestinian American who holds a Gaza ID, I can’t enter Gaza through Israel and I can’t exit without Israel’s permission.
The noise over the phone was so alarming that my wife, Roa, rushed downstairs fearing I’d been injured. My mother and the rest of my family members eventually ventured out into the street in northern Gaza, not knowing what to expect. This time, they were met by their neighbors, whose lifeless bodies dangled outside the building, limbs scattered about.