All That Remains...Reflections on a rather sad day
5/31/26
After the death of my father-in-law (ay), his humble two-room home in the Kadoura Refugee Camp was torn down.
His family, like so many Palestinians, had been violently expelled from their homes and lands by Zionist forces in 1948 and forced into a life of exile and displacement.
Seven years later, in 2022, I took my grandson—his great-grandson—back to show him where his grandmother had grown up and to visit a place that I myself had always loved.
The house was gone.
The tiny garden that my father-in-law had tended with such tender loving care was buried beneath rubble. Yet among the destruction, something remarkable remained.
A magnificent grapevine once covered his patio, providing shade in the summer and producing the most exquisite grapes. As I stood there looking at the ruins, I noticed a small cluster of grapes protruding defiantly from the debris.
I took this photograph.
To some, it is merely a bunch of grapes growing from a collapsed structure.
To me, it is a symbol of Palestine itself.
Homes can be demolished. Walls can be reduced to rubble. Entire families can be scattered across the world. But roots run deep.
And sometimes, from beneath the wreckage, life emerges to remind us that memory, belonging, and hope refuse to die.
All that remains... and yet, somehow, it is enough to tell the whole story.
That image of grapes emerging from rubble carries a quiet symbolism that is difficult to ignore:
the house was destroyed, but the vine still remembered where it belonged.
https://www.facebook.com/photo/?fbid=10166091777606977&set=a.10150390714236977
photo & essay copyright Mike Hanini Odetalla 2026
"Coffee, Memory, and the Weight of History
ReplyDelete6/06/26
This morning, I sat on my patio drinking coffee and watching the birds, bees, butterflies, and assorted critters scurrying about my yard, each busy with the simple task of living.
As I watched them, my thoughts drifted back twenty-five years to this very time of year, when I would often sit outside with my late father-in-law (ay), sharing small cups of strong Arabic coffee beneath the summer sky.
He was then 87 years old, a gentle man with a remarkable memory and a lifetime of stories. Born in Palestine in 1914, he had witnessed events that most people only read about in history books. I would pepper him with questions, eager to learn about a world that no longer existed except in the memories of those who had lived it.
He spoke of his ancestral village of Lifta, its springs, orchards, stone homes, and the rhythm of village life before tragedy descended upon it. He recounted the massacre at the village coffeehouse, which he survived, carried out by Zionist terrorist gangs during the turmoil that engulfed Palestine. He spoke of fear, uncertainty, and the painful realization that the life he had always known was slipping away.
Then came the ethnic cleansing of the village and the long, difficult journey into exile. In 1948, he became a refugee, a status that would define much of the remainder of his life.
As a younger man, I listened with curiosity. Today, I listen in memory with a deeper understanding. I realize now that I was not merely hearing stories; I was receiving an inheritance. Not one measured in land, money, or possessions, but in memories, experiences, and truths entrusted to the next generation.
The birds outside my window know nothing of borders, wars, or refugees. They simply return each year to the places they call home. Watching them, I cannot help but think of the old man who sat beside me twenty-five years ago, coffee cup in hand, speaking of a homeland he never stopped loving and a village he never stopped missing.
Allah yirhamak ya Ammi. Your voice may be gone, but your stories still sit beside me every morning with my coffee. ☕💚🇵🇸
~ Mike Odetalla "