About a Land by Rand Abdalqader (she/her)
DOI: https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.21402769
Published July 19, 2026.
Keywords: ecocide, oppression, identity and belonging, settler-colonialism, land;
About a Land
Dreams of Liberation
The echo of my great-grandfather’s voice rings in my ears, as he vowed never to give up his lands to Zionists, even if it meant “burning it to the ground”. I never actually met him, but my grandmother told me this story.⁵ Forcibly exiled in 1948, he spent the rest of his life mourning the life he lost in his homeland. His pain prevented him from talking about Palestine, but his cries could be heard every night, or so I am told.
My great-grandfather was a farmer from Haifa who owned orchards that, according to several family members, “fed fruit to the entire city”. In 1948, he was forced to leave his home, possessions, and groves behind. Like many Palestinians, the family packed some essentials and set out with the belief that they would be gone for “a few weeks”. My grandmother still recalls the day they left; their last meal and final moments. From that moment on, my great-grandfather spent his life as a refugee in Syria. As a child, I longed for Haifa and envisioned it as an ultimate paradise, an imaginary land that felt so distant. It was not until I walked down its streets as an adult that this image was shattered, when I realized that the city held little resemblance to the place my grandmother had inhabited. As an adult, I hold onto any piece of ephemera or memory that my grandmother or other family members could offer.
My parents descend from Haifa, Ein Al-Zeitun, and Al-Safriyyah, the latter two are villages that no longer exist, as they were forcibly displaced in 1948. Decades later, after the Oslo Accords, my parents had the opportunity to return to the West Bank. They inhabited this land but didn’t live in it, constrained by the constant fear of colonial violence like settler attacks, military checkpoints, and the daily precarity of occupation.
After all, how do we reconcile with the land that had broken my great-grandfather’s heart?
Under the COVID-19 lockdown, Palestinians turned to nature, the escape that the Israeli settler-colonial state had spent years trying to sever us from. Naturally, my parents resorted to the safest and most viable option: our rooftop, where we built a small garden. Together, we cultivated this ‘land’, observed the growth of its plants, and cared for it. Within its grains, the soil had held onto the memories of dispossession and displacement.
I wonder how many tears my great-grandfather would have spared if he had come back to cultivate the soil he had yearned for; the same soil I could now touch, smell, and see.
Ecological Violence and Settler Colonialism
“This memory of the place came to mind as I stood above the ruins. To the west, on a mountain covered with pine, cypress, and oak forests, the neon lights of an Israeli settlement called "Halamish" to them, and "Nabi Saleh" to us, illuminated the night with their harsh, revealing glow, surrounded by barbed wire. The settlement appeared to be hovering in space, perhaps due to the light, as if it had yet to connect with the ground or its history.
What would a settler from Russia or Estonia, perhaps having arrived just a year ago, see when he opens his window and gazes at these same mountains I am standing in? What would he perceive about these mountains, steeped in history, that rise from it? He would not comprehend this history, even if he were a fortune teller, at least, not my history, nor would he grasp it, even if he were a god”.⁶
Like Barghouthi in Sa’Akoun Bayn Al-Lawz (Among the Almond Trees), I too have found myself gazing at the mountains of the West Bank.
To the indifferent observer, the uniform buildings and steady lights of nearby settlements might evoke an image of beauty or order. To Palestinians, however, they represent the obstruction of our Indigenous landscapes. While the native emerges from the land itself, from its soil and memory, the settler is imposed on it, foreign and detached. The coloniser manipulates geography and controls spatial awareness through the construction of walls and the installation of Zionist flags and signs across the West Bank proclaiming that there is “no future in Palestine.” These interventions obstruct our understanding of cartography in a literal sense, fragmenting the landscape and severing connections between places that are geographically close. On many occasions, I was shocked to learn that Jerusalem, which I am not permitted to enter as a Palestinian citizen of the West Bank, is only a few meters away. Zionist spatial practices produce a distorted sense of geography, making distances feel far greater than they actually are.
In Palestine, the appropriation of land through Israeli settler-colonization is a strategy of dehumanization and elimination.⁷ Frantz Fanon describes land as “the most essential value”⁸ for the colonized, as it forms the foundation of dignity and identity. Under colonial rule, the relationship between the colonizer and colonized relies on physical, spatial, and psychological separation. For the colonizer, land is a resource to be seized and controlled; for the native, it is the basis of existence, memory, and selfhood. Therefore, the settler colonial project is based on dismantling Indigenous ties to land to assert territorial and symbolic dominance.
The Beginning of the End
In a letter that former Prime Minister of Israel, David Ben Gurion, wrote to his son in 1937, he claimed that Palestine is under-populated, and hence, it has "vast colonization potential which the Arabs neither need nor are qualified to exploit”.⁹ Using this logic, Zionists have portrayed pre-Nakba Palestine as terra nullius,¹⁰ “a land without a people, for a people without a land”. A land that is empty, barren, and without civilization, reflecting settler-colonial rhetoric to justify the seizure of indigenous land.
For my family, the Nakba represented the “beginning of the end”. It is the point at which my ancestors’ identity became fractured; it shifted from “farmer” to “refugee”. Elias Khoury describes the Nakba as “a continuous tragedy, a catastrophe without borders in space or limits in time”.¹¹ Thinking of it as a memory of the past is a trap that obscures Palestinian realities in the present.
Ecocidal Manifestations
Nixon's (2011) concept of slow violence, harm that unfolds across time and space rather than in spectacular rupture, is evident in Israel's environmental violence in Palestine. Israel’s environmental violence manifests differently across time and space. In Gaza, is direct and immediate. In the West Bank and 48’ territories, it takes on more subtle forms, and it may not be immediately recognizable as ecocide.¹² Nonetheless, these methods are driven by Wolfe's ‘logic of elimination’, which aims to uproot Palestinians from their land and sever their relationship to it. Despite variations in scale and intensity, these forms of environmental violence are interconnected components of a colonial strategy to dominate land, resources, and life and eliminate Palestinian existence and ways of being. For instance, many Palestinians are unable to care for their agriculture or livestock due to their proximity to the apartheid wall due to the danger imposed on their lives.¹³
In the areas occupied since 1948, now within the borders of “Israel,” ecocidal practices are more systematic and entrenched within legal frameworks, making them less visible but no less violent. Collectively, these acts contribute to the elimination of the native and the dismantling of the collective continuance of Palestinian existence in the territories occupied in 1948. They can be understood as part of an ‘ongoing Nakba’, a structure of settler-colonialism that operates through continuous displacement, dispossession, and control embedded in the political, legal, and ecological order.
Afforestation and protected areas
Many national parks and forests were established by the Parks and Nature Reserves atop the ruins of Palestinian villages, aiming to conceal the remnants of displacement, erase Palestinian presence, and prevent the return of refugees.¹⁴ Furthermore, they intended to Judaize, Europeanise, and dehistoricize Palestine, and greenwash the acts committed by Israel through the production of false propaganda.¹⁵
After the formation of Israel in 1948, native trees and crops were systematically uprooted and replaced with European pine trees. These trees harm existing biodiversity and the local environment, specifically as they are susceptible to fire and shed acidic needles that can prevent the growth of other plants.¹⁶ These trees were specifically chosen due to their close resemblance to European landscapes.¹⁷
Israel created a minimum of 380 nature reserves and 115 national parks to facilitate the processes of the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians and land grab.¹⁸ 46 out of 68 JNF forests conceal or are located on the ruins of Palestinian villages demolished by Israel. With many of them being nameless, having no hiking routes or accessibility to leisure activities, the sole purpose of these forests is to hide the remains of Palestinian villages.¹⁹ Today, these forests are strategically concentrated in areas where indigenous Palestinians and Syrians still reside to justify the dispossession and seizure of land²⁰ and restrict the expansion of Palestinian neighbourhoods.²¹ By limiting Palestinian return and territorial expansion, these actions impose settler-colonial control on the legal system and the physical environment.
My grandmother’s village, Ein El-Zeitoun, was among those demolished in 1948. A simple internet search reveals that its remnants persist; the rubble of destroyed houses, a deserted house, and the well and spring. Today, the Biria Forest spreads over what remains of the village.
Not only did Israel change the physical landscape by changing the type of trees that are grown, but it also sought to sever Palestinians’ relationship with the land by banning foraging, a practice that roots Palestinians to the land and sustains food sovereignty. Regardless of economic hardship or political instability, these plants continue to grow. It is yet another reminder that the control of colonial entities is limited.²²
Every spring, my parents and I foraged for Hindbeh (dandelions), Loof (Arum palaestinum), and Khobeizeh (mallow), while Akkoub (Gundelia tournefortii), which is often described as gold, remained elusive. I think of my grandmother in the United States, who was forcibly separated from this practice.
Many green spaces were eventually displaced by urban growth, and settler violence made it harder to reach nearby villages. The forces of settler colonial spatial control and capitalist growth are constantly attempting to separate Palestinians from their natural lifeways.
While there is no solid scientific basis for the ban on picking Zaa’tar and Akkoub, the law has utilized vague scientific claims that picking them in the wild has made these species threatened or endangered, to disregard a long-standing agro-culinary tradition and instead monopolize the cultivation of the same species as monoculture crops.²³ However, in colonial contexts, conservation laws often function as top-down imposed measures, justified by the colonizer’s claim to scientific knowledge and aimed at curbing what they viewed as the harmful practices of the native population. This pattern is evident in the Zionist project, which has consistently rejected any meaningful engagement with Palestinians. Instead, it has evolved into a system of apartheid, marked by a rigid hierarchy that places Israeli sovereignty in direct opposition to Palestinian existence.²⁴ Hence, the purpose of this ban is to alienate Palestinians from their land and suppress indigenous land-related knowledge.
Transformation of the landscape
In Land of Sad Oranges, Ghassan Kanafani captures the trauma of 1948 displacement through a farewell to the orange. He writes, “they picked up the oranges, and the sound of their weeping reached our ears…. He began to gaze at it [the orange] in silence, and then burst into tears like a despairing child”.²⁵ Since the Nakba, Palestinians have had to bid farewell to their oranges and olives countless times, either by the literal uprooting of their groves, the expropriation of capitalism, or the transformation of landscapes. I think about the collective memory of Palestinians who were torn apart from their land and identity after 1948. Much like my own grandparents and my great-grandparents, over 750,000 Palestinians were pushed into unfamiliar lands. How do we maintain intergenerational knowledge when we, as a collective, are forced to create sub-collectives just to survive?
After Gaza’s occupation in 1967, Israel restructured the region’s agricultural identity by imposing restrictive land-use policies, limiting the cultivation of certain crops, and subjecting farmers to permit regimes.²⁶ Citrus orchards, which were once symbolic of Gaza’s agricultural image, gradually declined, with 700,800 dunams affected by economic and environmental losses. Over time, Palestinians were pushed toward cultivating export-oriented crops, such as strawberries, as a survival response to Israeli-imposed limitations,²⁷ proving that settler-colonial pressure rewrites agricultural systems to serve colonial demands.
The effects of this harm are also visible in the militarized transformation of Gaza’s border areas. The establishment of the Israeli-enforced buffer zone, alongside aerial herbicide spraying, resulted in vegetation degradation and slow desertification across 13,000 dunams.²⁸ These ‘slow’ ecological attacks were exacerbated by settlement expansion and land appropriation, which forced Palestinians to uproot orchards to make space for housing and infrastructure. Once the settlements were evacuated, the damage done to the orchards was too extensive, and local authorities gave farmers olive trees and smaller trees to replant.²⁹
Following October 2023, this harm reached catastrophic levels. The genocide and systematic targeting of agricultural land resulted in the annihilation of approximately 83% of all plant life and 70% of Gaza’s farmland.³⁰ This final layer of destruction shows how settler colonialism’s long-term ecological goal culminates in total erasure, where agriculture becomes unviable and the land uninhabitable. The Israeli regime enforces structural harm across generations, embedding ecological, social, and political deterioration into Gaza.
This transformation was further exacerbated by the Apartheid Wall, which tore up the land into smaller pieces and led to the seizure of more territories. To make way for settlement expansion and the construction of the apartheid wall, over 2.5 million trees have been uprooted in the West Bank since 1967.³¹ While Israel uprooted olive trees and destroyed Palestinian land, it accused Palestinians of failing to care for these same lands.³²
What makes the Apartheid Wall so devastating is how it constricts freedom while giving the illusion of “ordinary” life. In Al-Burj, residents told me they no longer dare cultivate their lands adjacent to the Wall, out of fear of being shot by the Israeli military. The land, left stranded and uncultivated, becomes another casualty. Despite that, most Palestinians maintained a connection to a land they have only heard about in tales, but never saw. Palestinians in Lebanon still say they are from the villages and cities of their exiled ancestors.
For Palestinians, writing about land is never an issue of ownership or legalities. It is about loss and longing for a life that is no more. So, it is not easy to write about the reality of your being. More than anything, it is an attempt at reconciliation with a life that could’ve been.
Seeking to be introspective, I try to think about everything I have learned in the process of writing this. I think of all the questions I have asked myself and mourn the lessons I might have missed.
How do I write as genocide continues to unfold upon my people? How do I immerse myself in words as I am subsumed by scholarly detachment?
By engaging with theory, I confront the apartheid wall and combat the expansion of settlements. I allow myself to long for the orange trees that no longer remain, as I know that the end of settler-colonial violence is inevitable. I hold on to the remnants of the knowledge of my ancestors’, most of which have been scattered and lost to displacement and refugeehood. And I also cling to the hope of my great-grandfather that one day, we will return.
I couldn’t stay away from this land for long. I gaze at these vast Palestinian mountains in front of me, and I know my freedom is limited. I try to get closer to it by spending time with it, lying on it, and foraging its blessings. This land, which has given us food, water, and shelter, is now being stripped of its indigeneity by settler colonialism and neoliberal capitalism: two sides of the same coin. This cruel force consumes everything in its path, yet the land continues to give. It blesses us with dandelion, za’atar, mallow, and other plants that the colonizer bans from foraging under the pretense of “protecting” the environment.¹ I carried this practice with me from my parents and ancestors, and now, it has become a criminal offense. The Israeli settler-colonial state uses many claims to justify the ban on foraging, such as stating that these plants are endangered species that could go extinct, despite having little to no proof to support these claims. However, Palestinians have carried this practice with them for centuries. These plants serve as cultural symbols of resilience and connectedness to the land. They are culinary staples that ground us in our ancestral heritage.²
The reality is that Palestinians spent centuries caring for this land, while the coloniser has imposed himself on it through land seizure and settlement expansion, house demolishment, ancient tree uprooting, and introducing non-native species to the land. The coloniser has continuously attempted to displace and delegitimise our relationship to the very land our communities have inhabited for generations.. Why does the colonizer go to such lengths to sever the native's relationship with the land? What value does he perceive in this?
This article explores the definition of ecological genocide, often referred to as ‘ecocide’. It delves into its manifestations across different areas in Palestine, particularly the Gaza Strip, the West Bank, and the areas colonized in 1948.
Under settler colonialism, water and land become tools of domination that the colonist restricts and controls as they please. Meanwhile, Palestinians have to part ways with their indigenous ways of living to adapt to this new reality; one that has manifested in different ways since before the birth of the Israeli settler-colonial state. I think about its earlier presentations of ecocide as part of “afforestation” efforts by the Zionist movement in the early 20th century to confiscate and Judaize land, and how these efforts compare to the complete annihilation of the ecosystem in the Gaza Strip since the beginning of the genocide in 2023. At first glance, it seems contradictory that both tree planting and ecological devastation can serve the same colonial project. Yet in both cases, the environment is reshaped to facilitate control over land and people. Water control is another pillar of Israeli settler-colonial practices, as the leaders of the Zionist movement were preparing strategic plans for water colonization even before the Nakba in 1948. Today, illegal settlements in the West Bank consume 80-85% of the available groundwater.³ However, I need to note that the distinction between "legal" and "illegal" carries limited significance from my perspective. These categories are products of international and state institutions that emerged within imperial and colonial orders, and therefore have little explanatory or moral value when viewed through an anti-colonial lens.
Amidst this destruction, Palestinians sustain their relationship to the land through holding onto traditional agricultural practices, such as foraging, as an anti-colonial tool. The colonizer has intentionally harmed the environment in Palestine by uprooting trees, altering the agricultural landscape, and controlling water systems. In response, Palestinians maintain indigenous knowledge systems through everyday practices of foraging and in the use of wild plants for nourishment and healing.⁴ In moments of environmental disruption, such as the global turn to nature during the COVID-19 pandemic, ecological knowledge and plant-based practices resurfaced.
¹ National Parks, Nature Reserves and National Sites Regulations (Protected Natural Values) & the Israeli government designated wild za'atar (Origanum syriacum) as a protected plant in 1977 under its protected natural values regulations, which is common knowledge amongst Palestinians.
² This is ancestral knowledge that is popular among Palestinians, especially elders.
³ Water in the West Bank: Shortages and Worsening Crises by Zahra Khudruj, 2025.
⁴ Indigenous Palestinian communities have long maintained knowledge systems through foraging and the use of wild plants for nourishment and healing.
⁵ Conversation with grandmother regarding great-grandfather’s account of refusing to surrender his lands.
⁶ Sa’Akoun Bayn Al-Lawz (Among the Almond Trees) by Hussein Barghouti, 2004, p. 36.
⁷ Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native by Patrick Wolfe, 2006, p. 388.
⁸ The wretched of the earth by F. Fanon, 1965.
⁹ Ben Gurion: Letter to his son, October 5, 1937 by Jewish Voice for Peace, 2013.
¹⁰ The Production of Terra Nullius and the Zionist-Palestinian Conflict in the book Deleuze and the Postcolonial by Marcelo Svirsky, 2010, p. 2.
¹¹ Rethinking the Nakba by Elias Khoury, 2012, p. 262-263.
¹² Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor by Robert Nixon, 2011.
¹³ Many Palestinians in communities near the separation barrier describe how restrictions and safety concerns affect their ability to care for their agricultural land and livestock.
¹⁴ Environment factsheet, Palestine Solidarity Campaign.
¹⁵ Oppressive pines: Uprooting Israeli green colonialism and implanting Palestinian A’wna by Ghada Sasa, 2023, p. 220.
¹⁶ An Environmental Nakba: The Palestinian Environment Under Israeli Colonization by Mazin Qumsiyeh & Mohammed A. Abusarhan, 2020.
¹⁷ Oppressive pines: Uprooting Israeli green colonialism and implanting Palestinian A’wna by Ghada Sasa, 2023, p. 226.
¹⁸ ibid., p. 223.
¹⁹ Most JNF-KKL forests and sites are located on the ruins of Palestinian villages by Zochrot, 2014.
²⁰ Oppressive pines: Uprooting Israeli green colonialism and implanting Palestinian A’wna by Ghada Sasa, 2023, p. 223.
²¹ How Israel Weaponizes Tree Planting to Displace Palestinians by Arvind Dilawar, 2024.
²² wild plants grow under difficult circumstances such as lack of water and limited human intervention.
²³ The Struggle for Za’atar and Akkoub: Israeli Nature Protection Laws and the Criminalization of Palestinian Herb-Picking Culture by Rabea Eghbariah, p. 111.
²⁴ Where Nature Ends and Settlements Begin by Jumana Manna, 2020, p. 6.
²⁵ Land of Sad Oranges by Ghassan Kanafani, 1999, p. 76.
²⁶ Gaza: Forgotten Corner of Palestine byAnn M. Lesch, 1985, p. 47 ; Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance by Shourideh C. Molavi, 2024, p. 14.
²⁷ ibid. Molavi, 2024, p. 29-30.
²⁸ Herbicidal Warfare In Gaza by Forensic Architecture, 2019.
²⁹ Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance by Shourideh C. Molavi, 2024, p. 32-33.
³⁰ A spatial analysis of the Israeli military’s conduct in Gaza since October 2023, by Forensic Architecture, 2024, p. 40.
³¹ The economic cost of the Israeli Occupation by ARIJ, 2015, p. 31.
³² Oppressive pines: Uprooting Israeli green colonialism and implanting Palestinian A’wna by Ghada Sasa, 2023, p. 225.
SOURCES CITED
Published Sources:
Applied Research Institute–Jerusalem (ARIJ). (2015). The economic cost of the Israeli occupation [Report]. Retrieved July 22, 2025, from https://www.arij.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/03/The_Economic_Cost_of_the_Israeli_occupation_Report_upd.pdf
B. Qumsiyeh, M., & A. Abusarhan, M. (2020, May 24). An Environmental Nakba: The Palestinian Environment Under Israeli Colonization. Science for the People Magazine. https://magazine.scienceforthepeople.org/vol23-1/an-environmental-nakba-the-palestinian-environment-under-israeli-colonization/
Barghouthi, H. (2004, January 12). Sa’Akoun Bayn Al-Lawz. Arab Institute for Research & Publishing.
C. Molavi, S. (2024). Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance on JSTOR. https://www.jstor.org/stable/jj.10819588
Dilawar, A. (2024, March 15). How Israel Weaponizes Tree Planting to Displace Palestinians. https://jacobin.com/2024/03/israel-afforestation-jnf-naqab-displacement
Eghbariah, R. (n.d.). The Struggle for Za’atar and Akkoub: Israeli Nature Protection Laws and the Criminalization of Palestinian Herb-Picking Culture.
Fanon, F. (1965). The wretched of the earth (C. Farrington, Tran.). Grove Press, Inc.
Forensic Architecture. (2019, July 19). Herbicidal Warfare In Gaza. https://forensic-architecture.org/investigation/herbicidal-warfare-in-gaza
Forensic Architecture. (2024). A spatial analysis of the Israeli military’s conduct in Gaza since October 2023. Forensic Architecture. https://content.forensic-architecture.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/FA_A-Spatial-Analysis-of-the-Israeli-militarys-conduct-in-Gaza-since-October-2023.pdf
Jewish Voice for Peace. (2013, April 6). Ben Gurion: Letter to his son, October 5, 1937. JVP. https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/2013/04/06/the-ben-gurion-letter/
Kanafani, G. (1999). Men in the sun: & other Palestinian stories. Lynne Rienner.
Khoury, E. (2012). Rethinking the Nakba. Critical Inquiry, 38(2), 250–266. https://doi.org/10.1086/662741
Khudruj, Z. (2025) Water in the West Bank: Shortages and Worsening Crises. Institute for Palestine Studies, 2 September. Available at: Institute for Palestine Studies.
Lesch, A. M. (1985). Gaza: Forgotten Corner of Palestine. Journal of Palestine Studies, 15(1), 43–61. https://doi.org/10.2307/2536576
Manna, J. (2020). Where Nature Ends and Settlements Begin.
Nixon, R. (2011). Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor. Harvard University Press. https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctt2jbsgw
Palestine Solidarity Network. (n.d.). Environment factsheet. from https://www.palestinecampaign.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/environment-factsheet.pdf (Retrieved July 3, 2025)
Sasa, G. (2023, May). Oppressive pines: Uprooting Israeli green colonialism and implanting Palestinian A’wna. https://doi.org/10.1177/02633957221122366
Svirsky, M. (2010, April). The Production of terra nullius and the Zionist-Palestinian Conflict. ResearchGate. https://www.researchgate.net/publication/285240083_The_Production_of_terra_nullius_and_the_Zionist-Palestinian_Conflict
Wolfe, P. (2006). Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native. Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4), 387–409. https://doi.org/10.1080/14623520601056240
Zochrot. (2014, April). Most JNF-KKL forests and sites are located on the ruins of Palestinian villages. Zochrot. https://www.zochrot.org/publication_articles/view/55963/en?Most_JNF__KKL_forests_and_sites_are_located_on_the_ruins_of_Palestinian_villages
Common Knowledge:
Collective knowledge within Palestinian culture, society, and more. Multiple sources over time.
Palestinians have maintained indigenous knowledge systems through everyday practices of foraging and the use of wild plants for nourishment and healing. This knowledge is widely recognised and not attributable to a single source.
Palestinian agricultural communities, particularly those located near the separation barrier, experience challenges in accessing and maintaining farmland and livestock due to restrictions, safety concerns, and limitations on movement.
In Palestine, changes to land use, vegetation patterns, and restrictions on traditional practices such as foraging have affected cultural connections to the land and practices of food sovereignty. The continued growth and use of native plants reflects the persistence of ecological and cultural knowledge.
Direct Conversation:
Rand Abdalqader, through conversation with grandmother. Discussion about the Nakba. Personal family testimony.
Secondary Transmission:
Rand Abdalqader, through conversation with grandmother. Mediation of grandfather’s experience.