The stories Sayed Kashua wouldn’t dare tell his children
It wasn’t the way she told them: remembering Grandma and her tales on Nakba Day.
On Nakba Day I can’t stop thinking about my grandmother. If only she were still alive; if only she was the way I like to remember her: strong, sharp-witted, always waiting for me after another day of school, sitting on her lambs’ wool prayer rug. I would shrug off my heavy book bag and run to her, bury my head in her bosom and silently weep.