Seventy-four years ago, I witnessed the Nakba, the ethnic cleansing of Palestine. I experienced it from the perspective of a 12-year-old boy in my rural village of Battir.

Battir was linked by train to Jerusalem, about 12 kilometers away. The steam locomotive shuttled twice a day to the city, allowing villagers to bring their produce to market. Jerusalem was also where many people went to work, visited doctors and met other basic needs.

Though many in Battir were illiterate, each day newspapers would come from Jerusalem. People would gather and listen as someone read aloud the news of the events swirling around us and on which our future hinged.

For a long time, it was well understood that the British promise of a “Jewish national home” in Palestine was an existential threat. Adults talked about it all the time, and we as children overheard and shared their fears and anxieties.

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