Dina Elmuti

Thirty-seven members of my grandmother’s family were killed by Zionist forces on 9 April 1948.

As she exits Palestine, Dina Elmuti reflects on the oppressive apparatus that surrounds her, and on the growing global struggle to break through it with something stronger, our humanity.

Three weeks after saying goodbye to Palestine, with the pictures and faces of all those I met at Aida still fresh in my mind, I received a much-needed wake-up call that profoundly changed my life in ways I never could have imagined or expected. Dina Elmuti writes for The Electronic Intifada.

“Deir Yassin,” the imperishable words of my grandmother continue to resonate with me each day for she made me promise to never forget, and that’s a promise I intend to keep to her. Dina Elmuti writes on the anniversary of the Deir Yassin massacre.

My family and I spent the hot August day among energetic activists, welcoming families and curious children all more than willing to drop whatever they were doing to show us around the refugee camp they had all come to call home over the years. It’s at places like Aida where one’s life is put into perspective. At least, mine certainly was, starting with the first family we were fortunate enough to visit. Dina Elmuti writes from Aida refugee camp, occupied West Bank.

Stepping out of the taxi cab and onto the gravel road, I walked towards the notorious Huwwara checkpoint near Nablus in the northern West Bank. To my left, I passed throngs of people waiting in lines barely inching along in the blistering summer heat, awaiting the apathetic wave of an Israeli soldier’s hand to be let through. Dina Elmuti writes from Nablus, occupied West Bank.

On jagged roads, unpaved and covered in mounds of dust, enclosed by a monstrous, towering wall slithering like the venomous snake that it is, I await the bus that will take me to the place I’ve waited to see for far too long. Dina Elmuti writes from occupied Palestine.

I made a mental checklist that Saturday morning of all the things that would guide me and prepared to embark on my journey back in time: a silver Chevy Cavalier, with yellow Israeli plates, and a full tank of gas on the gravel road outside ready to start the journey; my American passport tucked into my bag, ready to wave at the pre-pubescent soldier waving me to pull over; camera in hand, I was ready to document history with one click and a flash. Dina Elmuti writes from occupied Palestine.