On the concrete alley way near murals of villages of the past, I ask a little girl that I have watched grow up what happened today, what she’s doing.
“Today we are really happy, very happy with the party. It was really beautiful.”
“Why was there a party here today?”
“Because of the Nakba.”
“What do you know about the Nakba?”
“We were driven from our lands. The Israelis stole our lands.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 11 years old.”
Her little friend wants to talk too, so I ask her the same questions.
“I came today because we’re having a party because of Al Nakba: the 60th Nakba.”
“What do you know about the Nakba? What is your right?”
“I know that my right is to see all of Palestine independent.
“How old are you?”
“I’m 12.”
They run off, giggling and pleased to be a part of something beautiful, a celebration of their collective and individual right, on a day that is a reminder to millions of something so ugly.
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