“But that was before. Before…”
A heavy silence filled the bare-walled room in East Amman where I sat with three generations of Palestinian refugees. A moment before, we had sat rapt as Abu Nizar, a broad-shouldered man of eighty-five, shared animated tales of growing up on an olive farm outside Jerusalem. As a young boy, he’d tended to the groves with his father, mother, and siblings, learning the rich lore of the ancient crops.