"I was just a boy when I learned that my family would soon be leaving my beloved homeland of Palestine to begin a new life in America. To the adults, it was a practical decision—one made in search of opportunity and a better future, away from the suffocating Israeli occupation & oppression. But to me, it felt as though my entire world was being torn away. How could I explain what Palestine meant to a child? It was not merely a place on a map. It was the hills that encircled our small village of Beit Hanina and served as my endless playground. It was the olive and fruit orchards where I wandered freely beneath the sun. It was the caves hidden among the rocky slopes, the handmade kites dancing in the wind, and the familiar scent of earth after the rain. It was home." Mike Odetalla

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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The Boy Who Tried to Stay

By Mike Odetalla

 

Fifty-seven years ago, I made one final, desperate attempt to hold on to the world I loved.

 

I was just a boy when I learned that my family would soon be leaving my beloved homeland of Palestine to begin a new life in America. To the adults, it was a practical decision—one made in search of opportunity and a better future, away from the suffocating Israeli occupation & oppression. But to me, it felt as though my entire world was being torn away.

 

How could I explain what Palestine meant to a child?

 

It was not merely a place on a map. It was the hills that encircled our small village of Beit Hanina and served as my endless playground. It was the olive and fruit orchards where I wandered freely beneath the sun. It was the caves hidden among the rocky slopes, the handmade kites dancing in the wind, and the familiar scent of earth after the rain.

 

It was home.

 

Unable to imagine life anywhere else, I did the only thing a heartbroken child could think to do: I ran away.

 

I sought refuge at the home of my beloved Aunt Jameela (Allah yerhamha), whose house rested on the side of the great hill overlooking our village. To me, it was a sanctuary. I believed that if I stayed there, hidden among the hills and within the loving embrace of my aunt, perhaps the inevitable could somehow be delayed—or even stopped altogether.

 

For one precious night, I allowed myself to believe that I had succeeded.

 

But childhood dreams are no match for the plans of adults.

 

The next day, to my profound disappointment, I was gently but firmly returned to my family. Three days later, I boarded an airplane and arrived in Detroit, Michigan.

 

In the span of a few hours, my world changed forever.

 

I went from olive groves and stone terraces to concrete and smokestacks. From the quiet rhythms of village life to the noise of traffic and crowded city streets. From a landscape shaped by generations of my ancestors to an unfamiliar urban jungle of steel and asphalt.

 

To a young boy, it felt like exile.

 

Yet even as I adapted to this new world, a part of me never left that hillside in Beit Hanina.

It remains there still—in the caves I explored, in the orchards where I played, and in the comforting presence of Aunt Jameela's home perched above the village. In my mind, I can still see that small boy clutching his hopes, convinced that if he hid long enough, he could somehow prevent the loss of everything he cherished.

 

He was wrong, of course.

 

But I have never stopped admiring his determination.

 

And perhaps that is why Palestine has never left me.

 

Because no matter how many miles separate us, no matter how many years pass, the heart remembers where it first learned to love.

 

And somewhere deep inside me, that little boy is still running up the hill, still seeking refuge in Aunt Jameela's home, and still believing that home is worth holding onto with all his might.

   [AS ALWAYS PLEASE GO TO THE LINK TO READ GOOD ARTICLES (or quotes or watch videos) IN FULL: HELP SHAPE ALGORITHMS (and conversations) THAT EMPOWER DECENCY, DIGNITY, JUSTICE & PEACE... and hopefully Palestine] 

&

Mike Hanini Odetalla

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Reflections on the wholesale Destruction in Gaza & Lebanon

 

5/27/26

 

Once, when I was a child, my late grandfather (ay) scolded me for disturbing a bird’s nest. 

 

He asked me, “How would you feel if someone came and destroyed your home?”

 

That lesson stayed with me my entire life.

 

A simple village farmer (fallah), with little formal education, understood something fundamental: compassion begins by placing yourself in the suffering of others.

 

And yet today, we witness Palestinian and Lebanese homes destroyed on a massive scale — entire neighborhoods reduced to rubble, families buried beneath concrete, children traumatized for life, and generations scarred forever.

 

I often wonder: where are the voices of the grandfathers who are supposed to teach mercy, restraint, and humanity? What lessons are being passed down to children when silence greets the destruction of other people’s homes and lives?

 

Because when children are taught to normalize cruelty, indifference, or collective punishment, the damage extends far beyond shattered buildings. It reaches and decays the soul.

 

The measure of our humanity is not in how we treat those who look like us, pray like us, or agree with us — but in whether we can recognize the pain of others as if it were our own. 

 

— Mike Odetalla 

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Mike Odetalla's newest book- buy a copy, enjoy, savor it... then pass it on to your local library or a child that you know and love  

Aunt Jameela's Bread. A Story of Food, Family, and Love..... A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood and baking bread in his homeland.

A beautiful new book by Palestinian-American Mike Odetalla about childhood, family, and homemade bread in his homeland 

With the children of #Gaza on my mind and forever in my heart 💔 Moonlight...By Mike Odetalla

 

With the children of #Gaza on my mind and forever in my heart

 

Moonlight...By Mike Odetalla

 

As I look outside my window and see a most beautiful full moon, so bright and brilliant; it literally sends golden shards of light through my window shades. I begin to remember that night in June of 1967. Could it have been the same bright and peaceful moon that lit our escape path as we ran for the neighboring hills and caves? I remember it being so big and bright, that the worn dirt path that led us away was clearly visible. The mouth of the cave faced due east and that night, the moon shone like a giant spotlight that seemed to be resting on top of the hill that my family had owned a large chunk of for generations. The moon sitting on top of that hill facing the west and looking straight into my eyes as I sat there at the mouth of the cave. I was in awe struck as the jets crisscrossed the night sky, their silvery metallic bodies gleaming, and reflecting dabs of moonlight.

 

Could this be really war I wondered? It didn’t seem like it. Except for the brilliant flashes of light that were later followed by the thunder, all seemed “normal”. Yes, we were cramped, more than 25 people were in the cave with us, but I had somehow tuned out all the noise of the women and the cries of the other children. I was totally hypnotized by that gorgeous moonlight. Suddenly, I was rudely snapped out of my hypnotic state, as my mother yanked my arm, yelling for us to run away from that cave. I got up and ran simply because of my mother’s frantic yelling and urging.

 

We ran until we reached a large tree in the middle of an olive grove about 100 yards away. Then I became conscious that my mother was still urging the others to follow. They hesitated at first, but finally relented as it became clear, you see that those jets gleaming in the moonlight were preparing to hit us. Not 5 minutes had passed when I saw them again, flying low over head. After 2 passes, a jet positioned itself and dove at us from the east, the same direction as that brilliant moonlight. The flash from under its wing deployed its rockets directly into the mouth of the same cave where we had taken refuge only a few minutes before. There were powerful explosions as debris flew outward.

 

I began to realize, finally, that this, indeed, was war: a word and a reality that had carried no tangible meaning for me until that moment. There was no electricity in my village of Beit Hanina and thus, I had never watched TV nor ever seen a movie. All of knew of war were the tales that the old people told about their experiences in 1948 and the raids by IDF into neighboring villages. Now, a first hand experience was putting War into my life in bright, vivid colors, accompanied by a very violently booming soundtrack.

 

This, my introduction to war, was also the end of my childhood innocence. The sights and experiences that followed would be recorded by my brain for all of eternity, no matter how horrible they were. The moon continued to light our way as we went through the olive groves and seeking yet another scorpion infested cave. That cave would be our “home” for the next 10 days or so. Our new ‘home’ opened directly overhead, looking into the sky, so I no longer had a view of the moon or of what was going on around us. The only reminder of war was the ever present thunder of the artillery in the background, and the confinement inside that cave.

 

To this day, when I look at a full moon, I wonder if it remembers that 6 year old boy gripped then, as now, in its hypnotic powers on that fateful night in early June of 1967…

 

Mike Odetalla

2023 All rights reserved.

 

 Mike Hanini Odetalla (Abu Odeh)

 

Burqin Church (كنيسة برقين), considered the fifth holiest place for Christians worldwide, and the third oldest church in the world. It is located in the village of Burqin in Palestine’s Jenin Governorate (جنين) in the West Bank, Palestine

Entrance to Burqin Church (كنيسة برقين) Photo by @feryal27

Hidden Palestine

Entrance to Burqin Church (كنيسة برقين), considered the fifth holiest place for Christians worldwide, and the third oldest church in the world. It is located in the village of Burqin in Palestine’s Jenin Governorate (جنين) in the West Bank.

 

It is currently in use by the Palestinian village's small Christian (Greek Orthodox) community, as well as Palestinian Christians from Jenin and the surrounding cities. It is also a popular attraction for pilgrims visiting Palestine from around the world.

 

The church was built on top of a cave in the 4th century, during the Byzantine period in Palestine by Saint Helena. According to Christian tradition, the cave was the site of a miracle:

 

Jesus was passing through on his way from Galilee to Jerusalem when he heard cries for help from ten lepers in the cave, who were living isolated nearby. He encountered them and told them to present themselves to the priests, although they were not yet cured. On their way their leprosy disappeared. Since this miracle, the church became a station for many Christian pilgrims.

 

The church was repeatedly expanded and renovated during the early Muslim period and then during the Ottoman Empire. Today, the church is composed of the lepers' cave and an 18th-century hall and nave.

Moonlight... a true childhood story of being Palestinian in 1967 by Mike Hanini Odetalla

 

Moonlight...a true childhood story of being Palestinian by Mike Hanini Odetalla

 

As I look outside my window and see a most beautiful full moon, so bright and brilliant; it literally sends golden shards of light through my window shades. I begin to remember that night in June of 1967. Could it have been the same bright and peaceful moon that lit our escape path as we ran for the neighboring hills and caves? I remember it being so big and bright, that the worn dirt path that led us away was clearly visible. The mouth of the cave faced due east and that night, the moon shone like a giant spotlight that seemed to be resting on top of the hill that my family had owned a large chunk of for generations. The moon seemed to be resting on top of that hill facing the west and looking straight into my eyes as I sat there at the mouth of the cave. I was in awe struck as the jets crisscrossed the night sky, their silvery metallic bodies gleaming, and reflecting dabs of moonlight.

 

Could this be really war I wondered? It didn’t seem like it. Except for the brilliant flashes of light that were later followed by the thunder, all seemed “normal”. Yes, we were cramped, more than 25 people were in the cave with us, but I had somehow tuned out all the noise of the women and the cries of the other children. I was totally hypnotized by that gorgeous moonlight. Suddenly, I was rudely snapped out of my hypnotic state, as my mother yanked my arm, yelling for us to run away from that cave. I got up and ran simply because of my mother’s frantic yelling and urging.

 

We ran until we reached a large tree in the middle of an olive grove about 100 yards away. Then I became conscious that my mother was still urging the others to follow. They hesitated at first, but finally relented as it became clear, you see that those jets gleaming in the moonlight were preparing to hit us. Not 5 minutes had passed when I saw them again, flying low over head. After 2 passes, a jet positioned itself and dove at us from the east, the same direction as that brilliant moonlight. The flash from under its wing deployed its rockets directly into the mouth of the same cave where we had taken refuge only a few minutes before. There were powerful explosions as debris flew outward.

 

I began to realize, finally, that this, indeed, was war: a word and a reality that had carried no tangible meaning for me until that moment. There was no electricity in my village of Beit Hanina and thus, I had never watched TV nor ever seen a movie. All of knew of war were the tales that the old people told about their experiences in 1948 and the raids by IDF into neighboring villages. Now, a first hand experience was putting War into my life in bright, vivid colors, accompanied by a very violently booming soundtrack.

 

This, my introduction to war, was also the end of my childhood innocence. The sights and experiences that followed would be recorded by my brain for all of eternity, no matter how horrible they were. The moon continued to light our way as we went through the olive groves and seeking yet another scorpion infested cave. That cave would be our “home” for the next 10 days or so. Our new ‘home’ opened directly overhead, looking into the sky, so I no longer had a view of the moon or of what was going on around us. The only reminder of war was the ever present thunder of the artillery in the background, and the confinement inside that cave.

 

To this day, when I look at a full moon, I wonder if it remembers that 6 year old boy gripped then, as now, in its hypnotic powers on that fateful night in early June of 1967…

 

           Mike Odetalla 2002 All rights reserved.